The Harper's Sons
by paisley is a kind of pattern
Summary: Five of Pern's Weyrs stand empty as the 8th Interval begins. Brothers Ransom and Roe are fostered to Ruatha, and through the ordeals of apprentice life including dye, drains, and dastardly deeds they learn what it means to be family, especially as sons of the Masterharper of Pern.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The world of Pern belongs to the wonderful Anne McCaffrey, but most of these characters are mine.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy the story!

* * *

Ransom hadn't intended to make a mess of things the first time he was fostered. Sent out with a swollen lip and spectacular bruises blooming around his eye, he had sworn to be better. Granted, he had been thirteen at the time, and adolescence did little to help him uphold his intentions. Two Turns later, he faced the gates of a new Hold with fresh bruises and crumbling hopes.

"What do you reckon this place'll be better than the last?" he mused, half to himself and half to the taller boy standing beside him. Roe didn't reply. He looked exhausted, face sunburned and peeling. No one would have guessed they were brothers. They had the same tangled black hair, but the resemblance ended where their foreheads began. Ransom was dark and compact while Roe was fair and long of arm and leg.

"I'm sorry, Roe," Ransom said, more for his own benefit than his brother's. "For everything." He hitched his pack higher on his back as the gates of the Hold creaked open. His shoulders were stiff and rubbed nearly raw. His wool shirt scratched his skin and he grimaced. At least the evening air was cooler and drier than what he was used to at Southern Boll. The covered cart in front of him lurched forward. He followed the column of traders shuffling slowly under the stone arch into the Hold.

They entered a wide cobblestone courtyard, the caravan curving along the Hold walls. He had never been to Ruatha before, but the stern stone and banners flapping limply in the wind looked less than welcoming. Southern Boll had been their home for just a few Turns yet he was already beginning to miss it.

A short, hard-eyed woman greeted their caravan leader, exchanging the necessary formalities. Ransom caught up to Roe, his feet aching in his boots. His brother gave him a tightlipped smile that didn't reach his shadowed eyes.

A few of the Hold's men set to work unloading the traders' wares, unharnessing the beasts and leading them back outside. The hard-eyed woman approached the brothers with a purposeful tread.

"I am the headwoman, Winna. You are the new fosterlings from Southern Boll?" the woman asked.

"Yes, headwoman," Ransom replied. "I am Ransom and this is Roe." He gestured towards his brother, who nodded respectfully.

"Your commissions?" Winna held out her hand. Ransom passed her a creased parchment and arranged his face into his best attempt at a smile.

She scanned the page and looked up. "The Masterharper?" Surprise softened the creases in her forehead and the corners of her eyes, making her look nearly pleasant. She glanced from Ransom to Roe and back again. "You're his sons?"

Ransom forced his smile a little wider, hoping it didn't look too much like a grimace. "Yes, headwoman."

Winna raised her eyebrows and returned her attention to the rest of their commission. "But only one of you is assisting the Harper. The other is a weaver apprentice, transferring to our Crafthall?"

"Yes, headwoman," Ransom replied. He glanced at Roe, who was watching him with the same tightlipped expression.

"Unusual," Winna commented. She folded the parchment and slid it into her belt. "We don't get many apprentices transferring in from Southern Boll's Crafthall. Usually, our most talented are sent to them."

"My brother is a talented weaver," Ransom said, attempting to keep a flare of irritation out of his voice. "Headwoman," he added belatedly.

Winna's hard brown eyes regarded him for a moment. "We'll leave that to the Master Weaver to decide. Come with me. I will take you to your quarters." She turned on her heel and began marching across the courtyard.

Roe looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Ransom simply shook his head and hitched up his pack again, following the headwoman toward the Hold. Ruatha was much smaller than Southern Boll, but inside the walls, it was a beehive of activity. Women poured in and out of the kitchens, bearing soiled rushes and steaming pots. Orders were being shouted over the lines of workers laying fresh rushes on the flagstones and scrubbing benches. Ransom paused for a moment on the threshold to the main hall, stunned by the cacophony. Roe pushed past to continue on the headwoman's course, glancing reproachfully over his shoulder at him. Ransom remembered himself with a start and followed, trying to block out the mass of noise.

They wove their way through the main hall to a wide staircase at the back. "Layla!" Winna called. A young woman with a basket of linens stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned, untamable brown curls swinging around her face.

"Take these young men to their quarters," Winna said, gesturing to the brothers. "They are the new fosterlings from Southern Boll."

"The Harper's assistants, headwoman?" Layla asked. She observed them curiously, the tilt of her head and her bright green eyes reminding Ransom of an inquisitive bird.

"One is. The other is apprenticed to the Crafthall."

Layla frowned and squinted between the two brothers. "The Crafthall? How will the Harper manage with only one?" I arranged for two bunks in the Harper's quarters. There's not a space ready in the apprentices' dormitory."

Winna held her hands up helplessly as she made her way back towards the kitchen. "Take them both to the Harper for now," she called back over her shoulder. "I'll have a cot prepared later."

Layla pursed her lips and hitched the basket higher up on her hip. "Very well. Come with me." She gestured with her head up the stairs. The brothers followed her a few steps behind. Ransom could feel Roe's eyes trained on the back of his head, but he ignored it and stared at the scuffed stone of the stairs. Layla looked back at them over her shoulder.

"What happened to your faces?" she asked suddenly.

Ransom's toe caught on a stair and he stumbled, throwing his hands out to catch himself. Roe nearly plowed into him from behind.

Layla snorted in laughter. "I suppose I know now."

Roe pulled his brother up by his elbow. Ransom righted his pack, his composure slipping. An angry scowl flashed across his face before he was able to school his features into a blank expression.

"If you're the weaver apprentice, I hope your fingers are nimbler than your feet." Layla grinned down at them from the top of the stairs.

"I'm not the weaver. He is." Ransom jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Roe.

"Oh." Layla raised her eyebrows as she looked towards the taller brother. "So. Transferred in from Southern Boll. What did you do, drop a batch of wool into the wrong dye?"

"He didn't do anything," Ransom snapped. He stomped to the top step and frowned down at the girl. She was nearly as tall as him.

She stared back, unfazed. "I didn't ask you. What's the matter, something wrong with him?"

"No!" Ransom spat. "And if there was, it would be none of your business." Roe gripped his shoulder in warning, but Ransom shrugged him off.

She raised her chin and her eyes narrowed. "It is my business. I'm a weaver as well, and I want to know why Southern Boll has farmed him out on us. Other than journeymen and an occasional Master, Southern Boll only sends us their castoffs." Her foot tapped impatiently beneath her long skirt. One of her eyes was noticeably larger than the other, giving her an unnerving gaze.

Ransom glowered at her. She continued to wait, unmoved by his baleful glares.

"He's deaf," Ransom muttered finally.

The corners of Layla's lips tightened slightly, but the rest of her face remained emotionless. "I see," she said and shrugged. "Let's just hope he'll catch up quickly."

"He's perfectly capable," Ransom said firmly. "He doesn't need to catch up." Roe was looking quizzically from his brother to the girl, his forehead crinkled. Ransom shook his head. The other boy rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in response.

"This way," Layla said, setting off down the wide corridor. "I have work to get back to." They turned down a stone hallway and ascended a set of stairs that opened up onto a second storey gallery overlooking the Hold courtyard. Layla pushed open the first door and led them inside. The room was small, occupied only by a chest and a cluttered worktable standing against the back wall.

"These are the Harper's quarters. You'll stay in the extra room through that door. The Harper's sleeping room is on the right." Layla nodded toward Ransom. "Both of you can leave your things here until we find a place for him in the dormitory." She pointed her chin at Roe. "Can he understand me at all?"

Ransom swallowed a sigh and made a few short gestures to translate for his brother.

Roe nodded, his face brightening. He turned to Layla and brushed two fingers across his chest. The girl raised an eyebrow.

"He says, 'Thank you'," Ransom translated wearily.

Layla smiled. "Your friend is pleasant. You should try following his example." She stepped backwards out the door. "The bathing room is down the stairs in the hall should you want to get clean. You can eat once the Lord's household finishes their meal. Come down to the main hall and someone will take care of you."

"But what about the Harper?" Ransom asked, his eyes flicking around the empty room. Surely the Harper couldn't be sleeping at that moment. "Shouldn't I report to him?"

"He's out on Harper business. He'll probably return sometime tonight. You can report to him then." With that, she swept away, her feet pattering down the stairs.

Once they were alone, Roe turned to his brother and punched his arm.

"Ow!" With difficulty, Ransom squashed the urge to hit back, rubbing his sore shoulder instead. "What was that for?"

_Everything,_ Roe signed, his blue eyes narrowed into angry slits. _And for ignoring me earlier._

"I can't translate everything that is said," Ransom signed back.

_You can at least tell me what's going on._

"Just follow my lead, and you'll be fine."

Roe gave him a withering look, his long arms crossed over his chest.

"What?"

_After what's happened, you think I trust you to handle the situation?_

"Who else will speak for us? You?"

Roe shook his head, his hair slipping out from its tie at the nape of his neck, and sighed. _I'm not in the mood for this. Do you want to bathe first, or shall I?_

"You go first. I need something to eat." Ransom stretched his aching back and rubbed his neck. A hot bath sounded heavenly, but he needed to get his bearings first. A new Hold wanted exploring, and he didn't fancy waiting around for the Harper to come to him.

_Try not to do anything stupider than usual. _Roe shrugged off his pack, plopped down onto the ground and began tugging his boots off.

Ransom scowled at his brother's bent head and made a rude gesture before stomping out the door. The evening wind whistled over the roof of the Hold as he descended a narrow staircase to the shadowed courtyard. Rows of Threadproof metal shutters were closed over the Hold windows, even though the ancient threat was gone. The deadly spores had fallen sparsely and infrequently in Ransom's lifetime, but the sound of wailing Thread klaxons still twisted his stomach in anxiety. As a child in the Harper Hall, he had been raised on a diet of Thread horror stories like other children were raised on tubers and greens. Thankfully, the fear-stricken hours of huddling inside the stuffy Hall while Thread fell outside were over. Or so everyone hoped.

The last Thread of the Eighth Pass had fallen nearly six months ago. Ransom and Roe were at Southern Boll when the celebration began across Pern. Ransom had drummed and piped till his fingers were raw and his mouth dry to accompany the dancing that went into the night. Although he was only an apprentice, he had performed nearly as much as the journeymen harpers stationed in the Hold.

Just as the holders had become accustomed to the months passing without ever hearing the Thread klaxon scream, disturbing news was run in from Fort. The Weyr was empty. Entire Wings of dragons and riders had vanished overnight like the family silver after hosting Bitran houseguests. Ransom used to be able to see the Fort watchdragon on the heights from his window in the Harper Hall. He was stunned to think that the ever vigilant dragons were gone.

It only worsened as more runners came in from the far north, and as fishing ships docked at the Hold after crossing the bay, bearing dark news alongside crates of gutted packtails. Five of the six Weyrs that defended Pern for thousands of Turns had been inexplicably abandoned. No trace of the missing dragonriders was found, not even a pebble of firestone or a shriveled shard of eggshell. Only Benden Weyr remained populated, left to watch the skies alone.

The lingering air of celebration in Southern Boll was strangled by a paralyzing fear even stronger than the apprehension of Thread all Pernese had bred in them. The ovine flocks that had gradually been allowed to wander farther afield were herded back into tight enclosures. The Hold drudges hunched their shoulders and watched the sky fearfully each time they were forced outside to dump a bucket of compost, as if expecting silvery spores to appear at any moment. Although the Red Star was no longer visible in the heavens, the weaver apprentices whispered over their vats of dye about the return of Thread. If the Red Star somehow turned back on its path and sent deadly rain down on Pern again, they would all be doomed.

Ransom filled his lungs with the cool fresh air, clearing his throat of the gritty dust from the road. The topic of the Weyrs' disappearance had long been exhausted in both talk and thought. He had his own concerns to worry about.

He had traced a winding path through the courtyard into a service hallway at the side of the kitchens. He wasn't wearing his apprentice badge, and was grateful for the anonymity as the holdfolk bustling past didn't even notice him. It was refreshing not to have eyes follow him warily around a room. The kitchens were a frenzy of activity as the final touches were made to dishes to carry out to the Lord's household. Harried-looking women frantically ladled fragrant sauces over a side of roasted wherry. Ransom spotted Winna sticking burned fingers in her mouth as she pulled a tray of freshly baked bread from the oven. His stomach growled and he swallowed the moisture gathering in his mouth.

"You! Harper boy!"

Ransom turned to see Layla waving him over from behind a bulbous pot of simmering soup. Her hair was even wilder from the heat and moisture in the air, fanning out around her head like a dusty brown corona.

"Come here!" she called. "You'll want some soup."

Ransom dodged around a drudge carrying a cask of wine on one shoulder, getting roundly cursed for his efforts. "I thought I could eat only after the Lord's household was done," he said as he slipped around the girl to stand on a relatively empty corner of the hearth.

"You looked lost and hungry, so I thought I'd help you out." Layla ladled the thin broth and chunks of soft tubers into an earthenware bowl. She passed him a spoon and the bowl filled precariously to the rim. "Here. Lord Haligon isn't fond of soup anyways."

Ransom sucked in his breath as hot broth burned his fingers. The soup scalded his mouth, but what he could taste was delicious. "Thank you," he mumbled around a chunk of tuber.

Layla grinned, pleased to see him enjoying the food. "So where's your friend?" she asked, turning her attention to pouring soup into a porcelain tureen.

"Bathing."

She made a face. "Shouldn't you do the same? You just traveled here from Southern Boll. I bet you smell awful."

Ransom scowled in return. "No one could smell me in here."

"I forgot to tell your friend to find me after dinner. I should show him around the Crafthall. I suppose you should come too, otherwise my explanations would be useless. What is your name, anyway?"

"Ransom."

"And your friend?" Layla topped off the tureen with a flourish, spattering broth on Ransom's boots. "Oops. Sorry 'bout that."

"Roe. He's actually my brother."

She looked at him with round green eyes. "You can't be brothers. You look nothing alike."

"We're half-brothers," Ransom amended. "Same father, different mothers. He's the older one."

"I see. So, which one of you is the bastard?"

Ransom choked on a tuber, gasping as soup seared his windpipe.

"I suppose that's not really my business."

"It's not," Ransom finally replied once he stopped coughing.

"I take it you look like your mothers?" she continued blithely.

Ransom's grip tightened involuntarily on his spoon and he stared into the reddish broth in his bowl. "So I'm told," he replied. Roe certainly took after Kesandra, but Ransom had never known his own mother. She had died in childbirth, and Kesandra had raised Ransom as her own.

"Excuse me," Layla's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Winna'll have my hide if I don't bring her this soup now. You eat more." She picked up her full tureen and walked swiftly to where the headwoman was waiting at the entrance to the main hall. Ransom watched her go and shook his head. She was a strange girl. He ladled himself another bowl of soup.

The frenzy in the kitchen slowed as the Lord's meal progressed. Ransom finished a third helping of soup and Layla hadn't returned. He had lost track of her somewhere in the middle of his second bowl. Feeling a little less like his stomach was eating itself, he left the hearth, depositing his bowl and spoon in a tub of dishes in the scullery as he passed through.

He snagged an abandoned hunk of bread and made his way back up to the Harper's quarters. Roe had just returned from the bathing room, his black hair hanging loose in wet strands around his face. He was barefoot and shirtless, the greenish brown of faded bruises like inkstains on his pale chest.

Ransom tossed him the bread, signing once he had his attention. "That girl we met earlier wants to show you the Crafthall."

Roe nodded and finished folding his dirty clothes into a pile at the top of his pack. _Are you coming too?_

"Yes."

_I've learned more lips, so soon you won't have to translate for me all the time._ Roe had on the crooked half-smile he always wore when he brought up his disability.

Ransom grunted noncommittally. "I'm your brother. Get a shirt on so we can go."

Once Roe was dressed, they left the Harper's quarters, finding Layla in the scullery. She was scrubbing crusty pots, water splashing all down the front of her apron.

"There you are," she said, drying her soapy hands on her skirt. "I didn't think the soup was so bad to scare you away like that."

"I went to get him," Ransom replied with a nod in Roe's direction. His brother smiled and bowed in greeting.

"He's charming," Layla said with an answering smile. Ransom rolled his eyes. Girls. They always swooned over Roe. The combination of his dark hair and blue eyes did something funny to their heads. Little did they know how much Roe understood from their coy glances and the sight of the giggles they didn't bother to smother. He was deaf, but there was nothing wrong with his vision. Thankfully, Layla didn't giggle or flutter her eyes like a wherry-brained girl. She hung her apron on the wall and herded them out of the scullery.

"This way," she said, leading them to the side of the courtyard across from the main hall. She pushed through a small door in the outer wall of the Hold, emerging on a broad gravel pathway running down a hill to a squat building a few stone throws away.

"By this time, most of the weavers have retired to the Hold," she said as they walked. "But, one of the Masters should still be there to let us in. The building you see there is the workshop and storage rooms." She glanced over her shoulder at Ransom. "Are you translating?"

Ransom tapped Roe's shoulder to get his attention and began signing. His brother watched him intently, glancing every once in a while to Layla.

The path was empty, yellow candlelight glowing warmly from the windows of small cotholds that dotted the hill between the Hold and Crafthall. The sky was already the dark blue of gathering dusk. At Southern Boll about this time, the sunset would still be splashing brilliant colors across the heavens. They were farther north now, and the autumn days would only get shorter.

"Here we are." Layla pushed open the heavy metal door of the Crafthall, cool glowlight spilling out onto the gravel. Over her head, Ransom caught a glimpse of a high-ceilinged space filled with rows of looms and other contraptions he couldn't identify.

"Master Brenthon?" she called. "It's Layla, bringing a new apprentice."

"A new apprentice? What nonsense are you blathering, girl?" The thickly accented voice rumbled from the back of the large work room. "Come in, come in, you'll let in moths."

"It's not the season for moths anymore," Layla replied, ushering Ransom and Roe inside. She shut the door behind them all the same.

The voice grumbled something unintelligible. Ransom thought he heard "girl" and "impossible." Layla set off down a narrow aisle between two huge looms. Roe stared around as they followed, his eyes shining. He ran a long finger across a weathered beam on one of the looms, a pleased smile curving his lips.

The glowlight grew stronger as they approached the back of the work room. A broad-shouldered hulk of a man was bent over a table with his back to them.

"Master Brenthon," Layla said.

"Hmm?" The Weaver Master turned a craggy face toward them, bushy brows bunched over sharp black eyes. A hawk-like nose divided his face, casting half of his features into shadow.

"This is the new apprentice." Layla seized Roe's arm and dragged him forward. "Roe of Southern Boll Hold."

Roe gave a respectful nod. His eyes flicked helplessly to Ransom.

_This is the Weaver Master Brenthon,_ Ransom signed discreetly.

"Southern Boll?" Brenthon faced them with his arms crossed over his wide chest. "They've their own Craft Hall. Why is he here?"

"He was transferred, Master Weaver," Ransom replied.

"And who are you?"

"Harper apprentice Ransom, also of Southern Boll."

"And why aren't you in your Craft Hall, apprentice?" Brenthon asked, his brows lowered so they nearly obscured his eyes. "Is the Harper Hall going their own way and sending out greenie apprentices instead of journeymen?"

Ransom's ears went hot and his hands tightened into fists at his sides.

"He's to assist the Harper Dared," Layla put in.

Brenthon grunted. "Unorthodox. An apprentice isn't qualified to pick up his slack. They should just replace the man."

"Master Brenthon! Dared is a fine harper," Layla began hotly.

"Remember your place, girl," he said, but there was no edge of anger to his voice. He turned back to the papers spread over the table, flapping a hand dismissively at them. "I've met your apprentice, now be on your way. He'll report in the morning to Levine. Close the door behind you when you leave. Season or not, no moth is getting at my yarn."

"Good evening, Master Brenthon." The stocky man didn't respond, already fully absorbed in his papers. Layla shrugged comically at the boys and led them back the way they came. "Translate for me," she said, poking Ransom in the side.

Ransom bit back an angry protest, rubbing his ribs. She had caught him on one of his healing bruises. He hoped Roe would learn his lips fast.

"Master Brenthon is the head of our Crafthall," Layla said in a hushed whisper. "He oversees the major commissions and arranges mentor groups. He's my mentor. You'll probably be assigned to Journeywoman Levine. She works with most of the newcomers and junior apprentices. This is the main workroom." Layla gestured around at the rows of looms. "Only proper yarn is allowed in here. Back there are the storerooms for raw wool. That's where we do all the washing, carding, spinning, and dyeing." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Apprentice drudgework. I'm just a Turn from making journeyman, so I've been spending a lot of time on the main floor. Lord Haligon commissioned a giant tapestry a few months back. It's still in the design stage now, but the clothwork itself will be Turns in the making, so I'll get to work on it once I make journeyman. Brenthon won't let any apprentices near it." She patted Roe's arm and gave him a sweet smile. "It might take you a few Turns to rate a spot on a floor crew, but I'll still come visit you in the back rooms."

_She says she wants to marry you and have your babies,_ Ransom signed.

_Tell her I want at least ten, _Roe replied with a wry smirk.

"He says he'd like that," Ransom said aloud in answer to Layla's questioning look.

She turned her head away quickly, but not before Ransom saw the delicate blush rising in her cheeks. He thought he heard the faint thud of yet another girl falling for his brother.

"We'll go back to the Hold," Layla said, her composure back in place. She heaved at the door, dragging it open with Roe's help. Night had fallen outside, the battlements and high walls of the Hold a dim outline against the dark sky. Roe pulled the door shut behind them, earning another of Layla's smiles for his efforts. The crunch of gravel beneath their feet was the only sound as they made their way up the path. Ransom fell in step beside Layla.

"What did Master Brenthon mean when he mentioned that Harper Dared should be replaced?" he asked her quietly. He couldn't be sure in the dark, but it seemed like she shot him an angry glare.

"Nothing. I didn't think Master Brenthon paid any attention to idle gossip," she replied, her skirt twitching as she walked.

"Is there something I should know about the Harper before I begin working with him?"

"He's a good man. Why are you coming from Southern Boll Hold instead of the Harper Hall?"

"I stick with my brother," he said simply. She couldn't withhold information and expect him to sing his whole history to her.

"I suppose that's reasonable," she said in a tone that implied she believed otherwise. Their conversation lapsed into silence for the rest of the way to the Hold. She let them in the same side door they left through. The courtyard was lit by a few flickering torches hung beneath the upper gallery.

"If the Harper hasn't returned in the morning, come with your brother to the Crafthall," Layla said. "We'll need you around until we can come up with a better way of communicating with Roe."

"I thought you said the Harper would be back in his quarters tonight," Ransom said.

Layla shrugged one shoulder. "I said he'd probably be back. Doesn't look like it, though." She nodded towards the dark windows of the Harper's rooms. "If he does come back, tell him I told you to come to the Crafthall." She turned to go, but Roe stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. He looked to Ransom and began signing quickly. _Translate for me,_ he finished.

Ransom sighed. "Roe thanks you for your kindness and wishes you a good night," he said aloud.

An oddly shy smile crept over Layla's face, transforming her from a jaded apprentice to a young girl. She bobbed into an off-kilter curtsy. "Tell him I wish him the same."

_She told you to go bunk with the watch-wher,_ Ransom signed.

"Make sure you come in the morning," she said to Ransom, a sardonic expression back on her face. She darted away and disappeared into one of the Hold's many corridors.

Roe seized Ransom's head, wrapping an arm around his neck, and scrubbed his knuckles into the younger boy's scalp.

"Ow! Let me go!" Ransom pushed his laughing brother away. "I let you drag me around everywhere to translate for you and this is how you repay me?"

Roe's laugh was boisterous and unrestrained, echoing off the stone walls as he dodged into the courtyard, out of Ransom's reach. Two women exiting the main hall looked in their direction.

_Shut up,_ Ransom signed. _You'll bring the dead back from _between_ with that racket._

_They'd take one look at that ugly mug of yours and go right back. Besides, when have you been concerned with public decorum?_

"New Hold, new me," Ransom replied.

_Let's hope so._ Roe's eyes were suddenly serious. _Come on. We should get some rest for the morning._ His long legs took the steps three at a time.

Ransom made a face and followed his brother up the stairs to their new quarters. It was pitch black inside the Harper's room, the glows by the door nearly dead. A few stubbed toes and muttered curses later, Ransom uncovered a fresh glowbasket in the side room. It was little more than a closet. Two thin cots took up nearly the whole room, the space between them just wide enough for someone to stand sideways. Roe dragged both their packs in and sprawled out onto the cot on the right, his feet sticking out past the end of the bed frame. Ransom stepped over his brother's legs and dropped onto the second cot. A weary groan escaped him, the fatigue of six days' travel weighing on his body like stiff wherhide. Roe was already snoring even with bright glowlight still filling the room. Ransom kicked his boots to the ground and pulled off his shirt. He realized belatedly that he still hadn't bathed, but he was too exhausted to get back up. Telling himself he'd wash in the morning, he threw his shirt at the glowbasket in the corner. The thick material snuffed out the light and he fell back into his cot, asleep before he knew it.


	2. Chapter 2

The Harper still hadn't appeared when Ransom woke in the morning. He emerged from a deep sleep to an aching back and shoulders. His mouth felt like he had been chewing sand and tasted like the floor of a wher's den. He groaned and sat upright, rubbing sleep bleared eyes. Roe was gone, his covers smoothed neatly. A parchment and charcoal sticks sat abandoned on his pillow. Ransom picked up the parchment and inspected the half-finished drawing. It depicted a view of the courtyard from the Harper's door, the fire heights rising from the stark stone walls.

Roe appeared in the door with a dripping bucket in one hand. _You're awake,_ he signed.

"This is good," Ransom said, holding up the parchment and signing with one hand. "You been up long?"

Roe shook his head and set the bucket down, water sloshing over the rim onto the floor.

"What's the bucket for?" Ransom set the drawing back on Roe's pillow.

_To wake you. It's almost eight hours._

"Scorch it!" Ransom leaped out of bed and snatched up his shirt. A night of lying on glows left dark patches where the wool had been singed. He pushed Roe out of the way and dunked his head in the bucket, flinging water everywhere as he emerged and flipped his hair back. He'd have to bathe properly later.

Roe shoved his boots and belt at him and pulled him out the door. Ransom hopped to the top of the stairs as he crammed his feet one at a time into his boots. He had to run to catch up to Roe's long strides across the courtyard. The sky was a dreary grey overhead. Ransom was reminded of the sea mist that blew in over Southern Boll from the bay. The fog usually burned off by midmorning, giving way to clear blue skies and fierce sunlight. The clouds over Ruatha looked unlikely to yield, hugging the tops of the mountain range to the west.

The path to the Crafthall was already emptying of morning traffic. Other than a few Hold women and supply carts, the only feet crunching over the gravel belonged to late apprentices. Roe broke out into a run, Ransom trying unsuccessfully to tuck in the ends of his wrinkled shirt and buckle his belt as he followed.

Layla was waiting for them at the entrance to the Crafthall. She wore a loose tunic in weaver yellow with an apprentice's badge sewn over the right breast. "You're late," she called. "You won't last long around here if you don't learn to run!"

"What do you think we were doing?" Ransom asked sourly, trying not to bend over the stitch in his side.

"What happened to you?" She looked from the water stains running down his front to his unlaced boots. "A lake fall on your head?"

"You know, I'm only here because you asked—" Ransom began, his face hot.

"I didn't ask you, I told you to come," Layla said dismissively. She smiled at Roe and nodded her head in greeting. Roe gave her a wide grin and bowed with an extravagant flourish.

She laughed and blushed, stepping inside the large metal doors. "Come on, I'll show you to Journeywoman Levine."

Ransom smacked his brother on the back of his head once Layla's back was turned. _Will you stop that?_ he signed._ Do you have to flirt with every girl you see?_

_Only if they flirt back,_ Roe replied smugly. Ransom pretended to vomit, earning a startled look from a passing apprentice.

The population of the workshop was gathered at the back of the workshop, apprentices standing in straight files of ascending rank, from sniffling first years whose baggy tunics reached down to their knees, to the confident seniors who itched to walk the tables and make journeyman. Ransom's stomach tightened as he followed Layla and Roe past the lines of youngsters to the front. He had had enough of Craft Halls during his lifetime.

Dozens of pairs of eyes followed them as they walked past, lingering especially on Roe. Whispers rippled through the otherwise still ranks, an occasional giggle breaking out until a stern glance from one of the journeymen silenced the culprit.

The barrel-shaped man that Ransom recognized as Master Brenthon drew his brows together and scowled at their approach. Two other Masters flanked him, one on either side. Faded masters' badges were pinned directly onto their plain woolen shirts. Five journeymen stood in a line to the left, their sharp eyes watching the apprentices carefully.

"Well, Layla," Master Brenthon said with a long-suffering sigh. "Since you've already interrupted our morning, will you introduce our new apprentice to the rest of the Hall?"

Layla nodded, unfazed. She seized Roe's hand and dragged him forward. "This is Roe. He was transferred here from the Southern Boll Crafthall."

A fresh wave of whispers broke out among the apprentices, some scoffing audibly. Ransom clenched his teeth together and stared at his feet.

"Roe is the son of Masterharper Moregan," Master Brenthon added dryly. The journeymen's baleful glares couldn't silence the apprentices' surprised exclamations after the Master Weaver's nonchalant announcement. Even Layla started and stared at the brothers, her eyes wide.

"He is also deaf," Master Brenthon continued. "Communication with him will be made through the journeymen and Masters."

Ransom's ears burned and his face went hot as the apprentices burst into chatter behind them.

Master Brenthon spoke again, but Ransom wasn't listening. His ears were filled with snatches of whispered conversation.

"The Masterharper's son is _deaf?_"

"Ironic, no?"

"No wonder Southern Boll dumped him on us."

"Look at him, he doesn't even know what's happening."

From Ransom's vantage point, he could only see part of Roe's profile, but it was enough to tell him that his brother was painfully aware of what was happening. Roe's cheeks reddened and the corners of his mouth tightened. He knew very well that he was the laughingstock of the entire Crafthall.

"Roe will join Journeywoman Levine's class for the time being until his abilities can be properly reviewed," Master Brenthon said.

Layla gripped Roe's elbow and pulled him to a line of apprentices that looked like they would barely come up to his elbows.

Ransom scowled. Seeing Roe standing with first years was an insult he couldn't accept. "You're wrong, Master Weaver," he said.

Brenthon turned fierce black eyes on him as gasps ran through the ranks of apprentices. Even the journeymen started and exchanged shocked looks with each other.

"Ransom!" Layla hissed at him, her eyes wide.

He ignored her and plowed on. "Did our commission papers not describe Roe's competency? He was advanced for his class at Southern Boll. He does not belong with the junior apprentices."

"Boy," Master Brenthon growled, "I have a mind to ship you back to the Harper Hall if you speak out again in my Crafthall. Roe will join Levine's class."

"But—"

"That's enough!"

Ransom stared into the Weaver Master's hard eyes for a few moments before dropping his gaze to the stone floor. The entire Crafthall was so silent that Ransom was sure everyone could hear his ragged breathing. Even Layla was rooted to her spot. Only her eyes moved, flicking between Ransom and the Weaver Master he dared to defy.

"You're dismissed, apprentice," Brenthon said curtly. "Join Roe with Levine. I understand we need you to translate for today."

Ransom forced himself to obey, breathing deeply against the frustration churning through his insides. He kept his gaze trained on his boots as he took his place beside Roe, ignoring his brother's attempts to catch his eye. He caught Layla staring at him with a condemning look on her face before she turned and slipped back to the line of senior apprentices. Roe was too compliant. Quiet by nature, he was often content to wait on others, occupying himself with his own thoughts. Some took his passivity for simplemindedness.

Once morning assignments and announcements were made, the files of apprentices broke apart, scattering to each of their separate tasks. The Masters and journeymen assumed their positions overseeing large weaving projects, or like Levine, teaching a class of youngsters.

Ransom and Roe trudged at the tail end of Levine's class of first years to the back rooms of the workshop. Roe grabbed Ransom's shoulder to get his attention.

_What do you think you were doing?_ he signed, his eyes narrowed angrily._ You're supposed to be translating._

He_ should have made it clear in our commission that you are more than competent. You're nearly a journeyman!_

_It's not his fault. _Roe's mouth was pressed into a thin-lipped line.

_Why do you always defend him?_

_He's our father._ Roe turned away to duck through the doorway out of the main workshop.

"He doesn't act like it," Ransom muttered aloud as he followed.

The back room was much quieter than the echoing workshop. It was a low-ceilinged space lit by strong glows. The first years were already pulling hand spindles from storage nooks that honeycombed the wall and seating themselves on rows of low benches that filled the front of the room. Without waiting for directions, they began spinning, untangling handfuls of wool from communal baskets scattered throughout the benches and rolling them between their fingers to get a thread started.

"Will you join us, apprentice Roe?" Levine asked, a neutral smile lingering on her face. She was a tall woman that seemed to be all thin arms and legs and slouching spine. She wore trousers and boots, a wardrobe choice Ransom was unused to seeing on a woman.

"You may find a spindle on the back wall," she said.

Ransom began translating with a heavy sigh. Levine watched him, intelligent eyes following the movements of his fingers closely. Roe nodded and strode to the storage nooks. When he sat on a bench, his knees came up past his elbows. The apprentice sitting beside him could only just rest his feet flat on the ground. Roe fastened his hair back with a length of cord and began spinning deftly, his long fingers flashing in the glowlight.

"That was bold of you, to talk back to Master Brenthon."

Ransom jumped slightly at the sound of the journeywoman's voice directly above his right shoulder. He hadn't noticed her approach. He opened his mouth to give an angry retort, but Levine continued calmly.

"Stupid, perhaps, but rather brave." The corners of her eyes crinkled in a half-smile. "You're a good brother, to stand up for Roe like that."

"Th-thank you?" Ransom stammered. He had expected to be lectured, not praised.

"Don't worry. I doubt he will be in my class for long."

Roe was holding his spindle between his knees so he could help the apprentice beside him undo a snarl in his tangled wool.

"How did you develop those gestures?" Levine asked.

It took him a moment to understand what she was asking. "It just happened." No one else ever asked them about their language of signs. Levine listened so intently that he continued. "We were raised together, so we came up with a way to communicate."

"Does Roe talk?"

Ransom shook his head. His brother had been more vocal when they were young, learning to speak with Kesandra during her free time, but he stopped when he went to Southern Boll. Since then, he spoke only through signs and writing.

"I see. Who else knows how to communicate this way?"

"His mother, and one of the Harper Masters." Ransom smiled to himself as he thought of the old Archivist Yedol's veined hands fluttering in the glowlight of the copy room of the Harper Hall. Yedol always mixed up the sign for "boy" with "fish." He often signed that the brothers were his favorite fish in the entire Hall, although Ransom could use some more work on his penmanship.

"And the Masterharper?"

The pleasant memory of copying with Yedol disappeared. "He had more important demands on his time," Ransom replied through stiff lips.

"I see." Levine stepped around Ransom to adjust a young girl's grip on her spindle. "Hold it close to the base, Adeleia. It's not a tunnelsnake. It won't bite."

"Yes Journeywoman," Adeleia murmured and corrected her hand position.

Levine stood back and scanned the rest of the class. Seemingly satisfied with her pupils' performance for the time being, she turned her attention back to Ransom. "How did Roe communicate with his Craftmasters and journeymen at Southern Boll?"

"He had a slate and chalk with him in the workshop all the time." Some days, Roe had had to write and erase so much that his dark hair turned grey from the white chalk dust.

Levine snapped her fingers. "Of course. It's so simple. Why doesn't he carry one with him all the time?"

"He's trying to learn how to read lips." Ransom didn't mention how Roe's old slate had been broken by some of the other apprentices. They had smashed even his chalks into powder.

"I have just the thing for him." Levine stepped over a bench and rummaged in a trunk sitting beneath the storage nooks. She pulled out a small, square slate in a sturdy wooden frame. A worn block of chalk emerged from a thin cloth. She was busy for a moment, the chalk scratching quickly over the smooth surface of the slate.

"Roe." Levine knelt by the older apprentice, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding the slate out to him.

Roe looked up at her touch, then his eyes fell on the slate and he grinned. He laid his spindle down on the bench beside him and turned the slate around to show it to his brother.

_Welcome to Ruatha_, it read in the weaver's flowing hand.

Lost for words at the unexpected kindness, Ransom shuffled his feet and nodded his head. "Thank you," he said, his voice catching despite himself. Levine smiled and turned to her students, leaving the slate and chalk with Roe.

The brothers spent the rest of the morning with the first years. Levine alternated between supervising her pupils' spinning and administrating different assessments of Roe's proficiency. After a brief session of spinning, Roe demonstrated stringing a hand loom and began weaving simple patterns.

The hours dragged for Ransom. He wasn't needed to translate. Levine and Roe got on well enough with the slate. He half-wondered if they had forgotten about him. It was refreshing, however, to sit on a stool in the corner and watch the apprentices spin without any duties weighing on him. No one paid him any attention, and he enjoyed the feeling of invisibility. He had finally lost track of time, mentally rehearsing a tricky passage on the tambours in the Ballad of Moreta's Ride, when a muted whistle sounded through the workshop.

The apprentices sighed in relief and broke into chatter. Stiff backs relaxed, sore shoulders stretched, and busy fingers stilled.

"Time for the midday meal," Levine said in answer to Ransom's questioning look. She touched Roe's shoulder. Ignorant of the signal, he had continued working industriously.

"Enjoying yourself?" Layla's amused voice asked from the doorway.

Ransom spun around, meeting the weaver girl's direct stare. "Yes. More fun than a fool at a Gather," he replied dryly.

"Good." She stood to the side as first year apprentices began pushing out into the main work room. "Bring your brother. I'll take you back to the Hold for your meal."

"Back to the Hold?"

"Unless you don't plan on eating. I saw that you didn't think to pack anything this morning. Come on."

Ransom pulled Roe from the back room to the front entrance where Layla was waiting. They walked swiftly up to the Hold, a few forgetful apprentices straggling along the path in front of them.

"Is this a race or something?" Ransom asked crossly, kicking up dust at their quick pace.

"Apprentices only have half an hour to eat," Layla said. She had hoisted her skirts up above her ankles and strode briskly. "That's why most everyone packs their food. You would have had more time on your first day, but for your performance this morning."

Ransom rolled his eyes and lengthened his strides to keep up with his tall brother.

The apprentices were queued at the scullery door where the kitchen women handed out small packets wrapped in cheesecloth. Ransom and Roe fell in behind Layla. A freckled boy opened his food packet as he headed back towards the Crafthall, stuffing a hunk of dense grain bread into his mouth. Ransom's stomach gurgled as he realized the last thing he had eaten was Layla's soup the day before.

There was a shout as a shadow overhead briefly blocked out the sun. The apprentices' heads swiveled in unison, jaws dropping and hands rising to shade eyes. A brown dragon had appeared in the sky above the Hold and was making its slow descent to the road. A cheer rose from the onlookers. The Hold gate was suddenly crowded with people running out to get a closer look.

"Come on!" In his excitement, Ransom seized Layla's elbow and pushed through the press of people. Roe led the way, navigating down the path.

The dragon alighted on the road beyond the Crafthall, brown wings churning up dust and debris. Ransom shielded his eyes and held his breath as dirt flew into his face. The front row of onlookers left a respectful amount of space between themselves and the dragon. The crowd parted to let through two tall, finely dressed men. One was significantly older, his narrow shoulders slightly stooped from age. The second was thin and dark-haired. They both carried themselves with the air of ones born into authority. They greeted the dragon man and his passenger.

"That's the Lord Holder Haligon and his nephew, Aegellan," Layla whispered to Ransom. "It's rumored Lord Haligon may give the succession to Aegellan instead of his son Daxel."

"Why? What's happened with Daxel?"

"He's been at Crom, over some political nonsense. That's Harper Dared." Layla pointed to one of the men on the dragon.

The dragon's lanky passenger dismounted with the fluid movements of long practice. Ransom wondered what the Harper's errand could have been, to rate him a dragon mount from Benden Weyr, a full continent away.

"I was afraid they'd come on dragonback," Layla murmured to herself.

No one else seemed to share her concern. The crowd around him buzzed with excitement to be so close to a real live dragon. The sight swelled the heart and raised the spirits, much needed in the wake of the sudden disappearances.

"What's the matter?" Ransom asked. "The Harper afraid of flying?"

The furious glare Layla shot him nearly rocked him back on his heels.

"Dared's the bravest man you'll ever know," she snapped. "You don't know half of what he's done. He was a dragonrider, but his dragon was killed in Threadfall six Turns back. Do you know what happens to a rider who loses his dragon? Half of him dies. Most people go mad. But Dared survived and right now he's one of the most important Harpers on Pern."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. You don't have to bite my head off."

Mollified, Layla sniffed. "He's a good man and I don't like to hear him maligned."

"So I've gathered," Ransom said dryly.

Layla gave him an apologetic half-smile. "Sometimes I overdo it."

"I guess we have that in common," Ransom said, earning a wry grin from the Craft girl.

Haligon and Aegellan ended their conversation with the dragonrider, the latter taking his leave and leaping back astride his dragon. The brown rose to his full height, impressive muscles rippling beneath his burnished hide. He flung out his wings and leapt into the air. They made a quick ascent, looping back around over the Hold. Ransom could barely see the rider raise an arm in salute to the onlookers. The crowd burst into cheers and applause that turned into gasps as the dragon and his rider disappeared, gone _between_ to Benden Weyr.

Ransom and Roe shared a grin at the awe-inspiring moment. The older boy's eyes shone with a far-off look that meant he was sketching in his head, undoubtedly capturing the majestic sweep of dragonwings in flight.

The spell cast over the onlookers broke as a journeyman called out ten minutes remaining for lunch. Apprentices scurried back to the Hold or Crafthall, where food packets had been left forgotten inside the storerooms.

"Come on," Layla said, pulling Ransom's arm. "I'll introduce you to Dared. Roe, you should come too." She grabbed Roe's hand and towed both brothers down the path to where the Harper stood with the Lord Holder and his son. The three men looked deep in conversation. Aegellan noticed the apprentices' approach and cleared his throat.

"Perhaps we should continue once the Harper has had a chance to rest from his journeying," Aegellan said, inclining his head subtly in their direction.

Haligon turned, eyes sharp beneath bushy grey brows. "Eh? That's right. Forgive me Harper, I forget myself sometimes."

"Not at all, Lord Haligon." Dared bowed.

"We'll continue this evening." Haligon and Aegellan took their leave of the Harper and turned back to the path to the Hold.

"My lords," Layla murmured as they passed, curtseying. Ransom and Roe followed suit a little belatedly.

"Mind you don't wear our Harper out, young Layla," Haligon said, winking. "We need him sharp for tonight."

"On the contrary, my lord," Layla said with a bold grin. "I'm the one who makes sure he gets enough rest."

Haligon let out a crackly laugh. "Young ones these days…"

"Dared!" Layla called as the lords continued up the path. "I have some people you must meet."

The Harper tore his eyes from the spot in the sky where the dragon and his rider had made the jump _between._ His face was drawn and a few days' growth of stubble covered his chin. "Layla." A smile softened his tired expression, but did nothing to remove the look of desperation from his eyes. "Two new admirers at once? My, have you been busy. I was only gone for a few days."

Ransom's ears burned in embarrassment while Roe was blissfully unaware. Unperturbed, Layla countered the Harper's teasing. "You know I wouldn't do anything of the sort with your newest fosterlings—"

"Roe and Ransom," Dared said, turning his attention to the brothers. Emotions Ransom couldn't identify flitted quickly across his long features. He realized that the marks lining the Harper's face were not just from weariness and age, but faded Thread scars.

"You know them already?" Layla said, disappointed to have her thunder so neatly stolen.

"You did mention that they were my new fosterlings. I was also close friends with their father in the Harper Hall. They have the good fortune not to take after him in looks." He winked at the brothers. "You must be Kesandra's boy." He laid a hand on Roe's shoulder.

"You know Kesandra?" Ransom asked, forgetting to translate.

"Aye, although it's been over twelve Turns since I was back at the Harper Hall for a proper visit. You were still in nappies then."

Ransom trawled his memories, discomfited that he could remember nothing of this man who seemed to know so much about him.

"Don't fret. I shouldn't expect you to remember me." Dared's hand trembled as he patted Ransom's arm.

Roe surreptitiously stepped on Ransom's foot.

"Ouch! Oh, sorry Roe. If you would excuse me, Harper, I should translate for my brother."

"By all means. Forgive us, Roe, for carrying on while leaving you in the dark."

A whistle sounded as Ransom finished signing, _Next time you want my attention, you don't have to break my foot._

"That's the end of lunch! We've got to get back now." Layla grabbed Roe's hand as he was beginning to sign a reply. She pointed at the Crafthall to clarify her meaning. "Roe can't be late twice on his first day."

"Go, then," Dared said. "We can't have you on Brenthon's bad side already."

Roe disentangled his hand long enough to sign, _Give the Harper my regards, _then followed Layla at a quick trot back to the Crafthall.

Dared was staring hollowly into the air when Ransom turned around.

"Harper?" he asked.

The Harper roused himself with a wry smile. "Please call me Dared. You'll have to forgive me. I sometimes lose myself in my thoughts. Now, I'm sure you're eager to hear what your duties will be. We'll walk and talk. I'm fairly desperate for a bath."

Despite the Harper's uneven limp, Ransom failed to match his long stride on their way to the Hold. A dull clunk accompanied their steps. Ransom realized with a gulp that Dared's left leg ended in a wooden stump.

"I'm sorry to tell you that you'll have a heavy load," the Harper began. "It will be challenging, but I'm confident of your abilities. Your reputation precedes you, Ransom. An excellent musician for an apprentice of your age, good grasp of theory, proficient with strings, sticks, and winds, excelling in voice—"

"Excelled in voice," Ransom said grimly. "Nature took its course two Turns ago. Drums are my primary now."

"Evidently adaptable," Dared continued, "and a blossoming pugilist, so I've heard." He held up a long-fingered hand as the boy sucked in breath to speak. Ransom, who meant to ask what a pugilist was, clamped his lips in irritation. "I'm well aware of the resorts apprentices take to resolve disputes. I was one once, many Turns ago. What you get up to with your peers does not concern me, but if you injure yourself to the extent that you are unable to complete your duties, I will take issue. Now," Dared clapped him on the back as they passed under the Hold's main gate, "the current times have your father working day and night, as you can imagine. I'm taking as much of his load as I can, leaving you with my duties of Teaching and evening entertainment for the Lord's household."

"I can't Teach," Ransom exclaimed. "I'm only an apprentice." Teaching involved singing, and he hadn't sung for over a Turn.

"Your father doesn't have me journeying for a few more days, so I can coach you," Dared said. "You may be an apprentice, but you are apprenticed to become a harper, and harp you will. Why else do you think you're here?"

Ransom stared at his boots as he walked. "I got us kicked out of Southern Boll Hold for fighting and Ruatha had the next best Weaver Craft Hall for Roe."

Dared sighed and lifted his eyes imploringly to the heavens. "The boy has no imagination. That'll be the first thing to remedy." He came to a wavering halt at the foot of the stairs, raising a shaking hand to his eyes. "Do you have any questions?"

The Harper seemed open-minded enough. Ransom took a shot in the dark. "Did my father ask you to take us as fosterlings?"

Dared dropped his hand, his eyes reddened and watery from strain. "No. I asked him. Now, I suppose we should get as much done as we can this afternoon. But first, would you run to Winna and ask for one of Miyra's headache infusions? My head is fit to burst."

Ransom obeyed, pausing at the edge of the courtyard to watch the Harper's long figure trudge wearily up the stairs. Dared was nothing like he expected—an ex-dragonrider, his father's childhood friend. He stored the Harper's words in his memory. Dared had asked to foster them. Life in Ruatha might not be as awful as he expected. His step was lighter as he headed toward the kitchen to find Winna.

A haunting pipe melody floated from the Harper's quarters when Ransom returned with the requested infusion steaming noxiously in a mug. He climbed the stairs carefully to keep from spilling more of the hot liquid onto his already scalded fingers. Dared set down his flute as Ransom entered.

"Ah, thank you lad." He wheezed and hacked a cough. Alarmed, Ransom rushed the infusion to him. Dared accepted the mug and forced down a few mouthfuls between coughs.

"Shouldn't…have tried playing…so soon," he muttered.

"Should I get something else?" Ransom asked.

Dared shook his head and downed the rest of the liquid. "I should ask that she add sweetener next time," he said to himself with a grimace. He motioned Ransom to take a seat. "Though your abilities have been expounded to me in speech and writing, I want to hear how you play. And how we play together. What instrument do you have with you?"

"Just my tambour and a pipe."

"Bring both," Dared said decisively. "I'll provide gitar and harp."

While Ransom fetched his instruments, Dared set up two musical stands and scores on stiff hide. "Start with pipe," he said. Ransom laid aside his drum and scanned the score. He recognized one of the Composition Master's etudes and smiled grimly. He hadn't expected to encounter much of Master Omanda's work outside the Harper Hall. He flexed his fingers and blew out half a breath between his tightened lips.

Dared adjusted a tuning peg on his gitar. "Ready?" Ransom nodded and Dared stamped out the beat.

The rest of Ransom's day passed as if he were back in the Harper Hall. He demonstrated his musical skills as well as his repertoire of message cadences to beat out from the fire heights to nearby holds. At the bell for dinner, Ransom was dismissed. He left to eat, a stack of scores Dared had assigned him to practice awaiting his return. The Harper had his own business to attend to with the Lord Holders.

He and Roe were moved to the apprentice dormitory after the meal. At first, Winna intended only to move Roe, but Ransom insisted he go too. After a heated discussion, the headwoman finally threw up her hands and let him have his way.

"Harpers," she muttered.

Ransom responded with an innocent smile.

"You!" Winna's voice snapped like a whip at a passing apprentice.

The skinny boy skidded to a halt, mop of unruly hair falling into his eyes. "Headwoman?"

Winna gestured impatiently at the brothers. "Take these boys to the apprentice dormitory and then run another cot up from the storeroom. You're responsible for finding a space to sleep," she said to Ransom. "All the other cubicles are full." She turned on her heel and stalked towards the kitchens.

"Whew," the apprentice sighed. "I thought she was drafting me for dish duty. Nothin' worse'n being chained to a sink after dinner. You two new here?"

"Just came in yesterday. I'm Ransom, and he's Roe."

"Ah, I remember you from this morning. Harper kid what gave Brenthon lip." The apprentice whistled. He seemed a few Turns and a handful of inches behind Ransom. "Good thing he ain't your Craftmaster, or you'd be outta the Hall. I'm Tergestrom. The boys just call me Teg. I only get 'Tergestrom' from me ma, but she's out in Tillek." Teg jerked his head toward the door, a motion that involved his entire body. "C'mon, I'll take you to the dorm."

They stopped by the Harper's quarters to pick up their things, then followed Teg out of the Hold. The boy from Tillek chattered amiably the entire way. He and Ransom struck up an easy rapport, griping about cranky Craftmasters and boasting of their various escapades. Roe followed half a step behind them, content to study his surroundings.

The apprentice dormitory stood off the path to the Crafthold. A low fence ran around a small cobblestone courtyard to the side. The metal Threadproof shutters on all the windows were flung wide. Warm glowlight spilled into the darkness. Boys' voices carried in the still air. Laughter, unintelligible banter, and the occasional shout. The front door was propped open and Ransom could see a long hallway inside.

"Owen's the cotholder what's in charge of our dorm," Teg said as they climbed the front steps. "He keeps a relaxed cot. Evenings are the best time. We're free to do what we like till curfew at eleven hours."

The main level was made up of bathing rooms, an empty meeting hall, and Owen's apartment. Teg, Ransom, and Roe followed the sound of voices up a narrow staircase to the boys' cubicles.

A few boys lounged in the center aisle. One was reenacting some humorous event while the others laughed. Ransom caught a glimpse of three boys playing a game of dice in a cubicle they passed. The boys inside ignored the newcomers, at most giving them a brief glance before returning to their amusements. All the cubicles were open and none of them had doors. The wooden divider walls were taller than head height, but still short of the ceiling. Suspended glowbaskets in the aisles shed inadequate light into the cubicles.

"Owen got tired of repairing broken doors, so he just took 'em all out," Teg explained. "It's still better'n what the woodsmith apprentices got. They all sleep in bunks in one big room. Winna say which cubicle's yours?"

Ransom shook his head. "Whichever has an empty bunk, I guess. I'll go wherever my brother goes."

"Say, I hear he's a pretty good teacher," Teg said, nodding to Roe.

"He is," Ransom said firmly. He signed quickly to Roe, who smiled in response.

"That's how you talk to him, is it?" Teg made a limp imitation of Ransom's signs.

"Yes, you have a problem with it?" Ransom demanded.

Teg shrugged airily. "No. I think it's grand. Like a secret code or something."

Mollified, Ransom was nodding when a sharp voice cut across their conversation.

"You're not an apprentice. What are you doing in here?" A tall, sandy-haired boy slouched in the doorframe of a nearby cubicle. He stared directly at Ransom.

"He's that Harper kid, Petrand," another apprentice stuck his curly head out from an adjacent doorway. "The lippy one from this morning."

"My name's Ransom," Ransom said steadily, looking the boy named Petrand in the eye.

"He's a newcomer," Teg said.

"I didn't ask you, Tillek," Petrand said dismissively. He stepped into the aisle in front of Ransom. "I'm the senior apprentice here. This is a Weavercraft dorm. We don't cross crafts here."

"My brother's a weaver apprentice," Ransom said, steeling himself. "I'm staying with him."

Petrand's eyes traveled to Roe. "The deaf kid? You take care of him?"

"He takes care of himself," Ransom said. He clenched his fists around the straps of his pack. "I arranged it with Winna to stay with him. Do you have a problem with it?"

Petrand's impassive face broke into a sudden smirk and he laughed. "Shells, have you a stick up your ass. I'm just messing with you." He tousled Ransom's hair.

The condescension of the gesture set Ransom's teeth on edge, but he forced himself to relax.

"Your cubicle's in the back." Petrand gestured with a thumb over his shoulder, still chuckling. He stepped back into his cubicle, his last remark carelessly audible, "Are all harpers so uptight?"

Ransom smiled grimly and walked past Petrand's cubicle.

"Petrand," Teg whispered once they were out of earshot. "Thinks he's the best thing what's happened since the first dragon broke shell. He's a senior though, so we only have to deal with 'im for another Turn."

Ransom made a mental note to avoid the other boy's company. Petrand rubbed him the wrong way, but he refused to be the one to start anything. He owed that much to Roe.

After making a few turns down narrow aisles, the three boys finally found the empty cubicle.

"Cozy," Teg commented, "but it's home."

Ransom nodded unenthusiastically. The space was even smaller than the room adjoining the Harper's quarters. One cot and a battered footlocker filled up more than half of the room.

Roe gave a resigned shrug and dropped his pack on the cot. _There'd be no way to fit another bed,_ he signed. He smiled brightly, _You can have the floor, Ransom._

_So kind of you,_ Ransom replied with an exaggerated eye roll. "Can we bunk a second cot over the first?" he asked Teg.

"Oh yes. Woodsmith boys do it all the time. Not enough time to get 'em done tonight, though."

"That's all right." Ransom slung his pack into the empty corner. "I'll sleep on the floor tonight."

"You'll have an awful crick in your back in the morning," Teg said helpfully. "I'll run the request to the storeroom tomorrow."

Ransom thanked him.

"Fancy a round of dice? My cubicle's a few up the aisle."

Ransom looked to his brother. _Want to play dice, Roe?_

Roe shook his head, gesturing his thanks to Teg. _I'd rather not lose my marks on a game of chance._

Ransom declined the offer, making his own excuses as well. He remembered the stack of scores Dared wanted him to practice.

Teg grinned sympathetically. "Suit yourself. There'll be plenty more games, 'specially when Spring Festival's comin' up." He ducked outside.

_Make a new friend outside? _Roe asked, imitating Petrand's cocky stance.

"Just some lummox," Ransom replied irritably. He was trying to chart a path back to the stairs that wouldn't take him past Petrand's cubicle again.

Roe's crooked smile was grudgingly grateful. He sat hunched forward on the bed, looking up at his brother through the dark hair in his eyes. _You know, you didn't have to come with me._

Ransom made a face and dodged that conversation with an expressive shrug. "I'd never wake up on time, otherwise."

_Who says I'll wake you up again?_

"I'll pummel you if you don't."

Roe laughed and threw the pillow at Ransom's head. _Spend less time drumming and more time growing and maybe you'll have half a chance._

Ransom chucked the pillow back. "Unlike you, I'm actually good at my craft."

Roe scowled in good-natured outrage, pulling off his boot and brandishing it. _Go practice already!_

Ransom laughed and dodged out of the cubicle. He loped through the aisle, grateful that he and Roe could share a space again. Laughter rose from a cubicle down another row. He altered his route, remembering where Petrand had been and tracing a different path. He could get used to life here. If he worked hard and avoided trouble, what could go wrong? The flimsy optimism served to buoy his spirits enough to face a few hours of practice before bed.

It wasn't a nudge from Roe that woke Ransom, or even a bucket of water upended on his head. It was like a dream about falling that wakes you with a jerk moments before impact. Hands seized his ankles and dragged him roughly out from beneath his blanket. Face and chest stinging from being pulled across the floor, he blinked the sleep from his eyes in disorientation. Two boys stood over him in the dark. They roughly hoisted him upright, one delivering a sharp blow to his gut. Ransom groaned and doubled over, winded. The boys took advantage of his weakness to quickly half-drag, half-march him down the corridor to the stairs. Behind him, it sounded like Roe was receiving similar treatment.

"What are you doing?" Ransom gasped as he found his breath. "Let me go!"

"Shut up!" One of the boys hissed. They marched him down the stairs and out the back door of the cothold. The cold night air hit Ransom's skin, sending the hair on his body on end. He shivered, the shock driving away any last vestiges of sleep.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Let me go!" He was pushed, hard, from behind and he stumbled down the stone steps to sprawl across the flagstones of the moonlit courtyard. Roe was dumped unceremoniously beside him.

Two sets of boots stepped into his line of sight. Cold liquid hit him like a slap, stealing the breath from his lungs again. He yelled at the shock, Roe echoing his surprise.

Six boys stood in a half circle around them, two holding large, dripping buckets. Ransom dashed wetness from his eyes again and again. As the numbness of the initial shock wore off, he realized that whatever they had been doused in stung and stank to high heaven. The stuff smelled like old urine and burned his eyes.

"Welcome to Ruatha," a familiar tenor drawled. "That's to teach you respect for rank. You've a few lessons to learn if you're going to survive here, harper boy."

Petrand. Ransom gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. His wet trousers stuck to his legs, trapping the stinging liquid against his skin. He ignored the discomfort and forced his eyes open to see his adversary.

"Why are you doing this?" Ransom shouted. "We didn't do anything to you!"

The senior boy stood on the back steps, his cocky stance still evident in the moonlight. "You've got a big mouth for a puny kid. Harpers and their get, sticking their noses into everything. Think you're smart, don't you? Waltz into our Crafthall and give lip to our Craftmaster. We're not going to put up with that, are we boys?"

The other apprentices snickered darkly.

"—check his commission, his competencies should be spelled out," a boy to his left mimicked in a mocking falsetto.

Ransom cursed softly. He had made a mistake, yes, but why did they drag Roe into it? It seemed that every time he did something wrong, Roe was punished as well. Ransom hid his dismay with a scowl. "You won't get away with this," he growled.

"What are you going to do, run to daddy?" Petrand sneered. "We don't care whose son you are. You're in a Weavercraft Hall now."

"And you've been marked with our colors to show it!" another apprentice chimed in.

Dye. It explained the burn and the stink. Ransom's eyes began to water. He wiped off as much of the dye as he could. Roe made it to his feet, unaffected by Petrand's speech. He offered his hand to his brother. Face burning from the dye and humiliation, Ransom took it and stood.

"We'll leave you to relay the message to your brother, harper," Petrand said. "I made sure to use small words so he could understand." The boys laughed cruelly, heading inside at their leader's cue. Petrand was the last, shutting the door behind him. The brothers were left alone and wet in the courtyard.

"Those dimglows!" Ransom exploded. He kicked mud into the air and snarled a few choice words. His hands shook with anger so he could barely sign. "Are you okay, Roe?"

Roe answered by shaking his head vigorously, shedding dye like a wet dog. _This stuff is disgusting_. _I need a bath. _

The shock and adrenaline began to wear off, leaving cold misery in their place. Ransom sniffled and kicked his foot into the mud again. "Roe, I'm sorry."

_What for?_

"It's my fault you got dragged into this. If I had kept my mouth shut like you told me to—"

Roe cut him off with a dismissive gesture. _Don't be ridiculous. They're bullies. We're the new kids. I bet they were just looking for an excuse to mess with us._

But it was also Ransom's fault that they were new. He kept the thought to himself.

_Come on, let's go inside and get cleaned up. We may be able to salvage a few more hours of sleep. _Roe turned around without waiting for a replyand trudged to the back steps, white shoulders hunched in the cold.

Ransom squelched after him through the pool of dye seeping into the dust. He ran through a litany of curses under his breath, throwing in some new phrases he had picked up on the journey from Boll, profaning Petrand and his cronies, their mothers, fathers, and the wall-eyed midwives who birthed them. They trudged back into the cothold and headed straight for the bathing rooms.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for reading! Like the last, this chapter is also a long one. Thanks for bearing with me :)  
Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

Ransom checked his arms and chest as he got dressed in the morning. Nothing was out of the ordinary. The dye had failed to show up on his brown skin. Roe, on the other hand…

_How bad is it?_ Roe signed, gesturing to his face. He had rolled his shirtsleeves down to his wrists to cover up his arms.

"It's not awful," Ransom hedged. "Try combing your hair down over your forehead."

_Like that? Does it make it better?_

"Absolutely," Ransom said and ducked his head to tie his boots. His brother could always tell when he was lying.

The sounds of a dorm full of apprentice boys waking and getting dressed spilled into their cubicle. Two boys dashed past their doorway, pulling on shirts and buckling belts as they went. Breakfast and packed lunches were available at the Hold, but only for those who roused early enough to make the trek before the morning began at the Crafthall. The brothers moved slowly. Most of the boys had already left by the time they stepped from their cubicle.

"Hey, Roe," Ransom punched his brother's shoulder lightly. "Don't let anyone give you a hard time today. If any of those dimglows from last night bothers you, let me know."

_And you'll pummel them?_ Roe signed with a crooked smirk, skeptical but humored.

Ransom squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "By the Egg, I will."

Roe laughed and mussed his brother's hair. _Let's go. We'll be late._

The boys parted ways in the courtyard with just enough time to report to their respective Craft superiors. Ransom jogged lightly up the hill to the Hold, his tambour slung across his back. He wished he could stay with Roe, especially with the senior apprentices so close by. Nothing would happen, he told himself. The Crafthall would be full of journeymen and Weaver Masters. Petrand would be stupid to try anything.

Ransom met Dared outside the Harper's quarters. Dared nodded wordlessly in greeting. He looked as if he hadn't slept. Eyes more red than blue, his hands trembled as he raised a mug of klah to his bloodless lips. Ransom followed the silent Harper through the Hold to the Teaching room. The arrhythmic clunk of Dared's leg sparked new cadences in Ransom's mind and his fingers itched to practice the sticking. He hoped his voice wouldn't crack if he had to sing. Hopefully, he wouldn't need to.

The classroom was a spacious alcove, well-lit with a shelf of scores against the back wall. Groaning, Dared lowered himself onto a high stool at the front. He tossed back the last of his klah and stowed his mug behind him. He had shaved, but his scarred face still looked haggard. Ransom pulled out his tambour and looped the carrying strap around his shoulders.

"Here they come," Dared said as the first little face poked into the room. He unslung the gitar from his back and quickly tuned it. "Good morning, Sander."

The small tow-headed boy piped a hello as he plopped into his seat. The rest of the class tripped in, greeting the Harper and gawking at Ransom in turn. Once all the little bodies were settled on their benches, Dared strummed an opening chord and cleared his throat. "Good morning class. Allow me to introduce you to Harper apprentice Ransom. He will be in charge of your teaching."

The class mumbled a timid greeting, voices trailing off as the syllables dragged on. Ransom swallowed, suddenly nervous as thirteen pairs of eyes focused on him.

"Let's review the names of the Weyrleaders. All of them," Dared added meaningfully. "Ransom, if you would?"

Ransom fumbled with his sticks for a moment, but once he got the first beat in, his hands steadied and his nerves vanished like firelizards at a holder boy's approach. The cadences of the Teaching song were as much a part of him as the pulse of his heart.

The class joined in at Dared's cue, high voices dutifully chanting the names of dragonriders consigned to an unknown fate. They began with the Weyrleaders of Fort. Ransom remembered the friendly Fort riders that favored the young apprentices pressing their faces to classroom windows with a wave or a waggle of wings whenever business brought them to the Harper Hall. Mardra, Weyrwoman of Fort was Ruathan, he realized. How must Lord Haligon feel about the sudden disappearance of his daughter? In the face of a continent-wide shortage of dragonkind, the loss seemed to lessen in significance. Or it brought the mass disappearances painfully close to home.

The morning passed to the beat of Ransom's drum. Accustomed to accompaniment by gitar, the children were awed by the showier flash of drumsticks. Ransom was just grateful he hadn't had to lead the singing. Dared dismissed the class at the bell for the midday meal. After a few hours of sitting up straight and keeping their hands to themselves, the children leapt from their benches and ran into the hall. Little shrieks of laughter echoed back into the room over their chatter. Ransom watched them go, grinning. As much as he shied from the idea of teaching by himself, he enjoyed kids.

Dared chuckled and eased himself off his stool. "To have that kind of energy again." His knees popped audibly as he knelt to pack up his gitar. "Or a young, unbroken body," he added ruefully. "Not a bad way to pass the morning, eh? That is, if you can ignore the tone-deaf ones."

Ransom stuck his drumsticks in the waistband of his trousers. He unhooked his tambour's carrying strap and picked up the oilskin drum cover when he heard a small noise at his elbow. He looked down into a pair of brown eyes. A tiny, dark-haired boy stared up at him.

"Oh, hello," Ransom said in a friendly voice. "Do you need something?"

The boy shook his head, straight hair swishing around his ears. He looked about four or five Turns old.

Ransom shifted his drum to his hip and hunkered down to the boy's level. "What's your name?"

"Wyand," he murmured, hands clasped shyly behind his back. His gaze went to Ransom's drum.

"Do you want to see my drum, Wyand?"

"Not Wyand, Wyand," the boy corrected him. He was missing his two front teeth.

"Oh. Sorry," Ransom said. He hadn't heard a difference. "Want to see my drum?" He sat on the floor and held his drum on his lap, pulling out his drumsticks. The little boy's eyes lit up, but his hands stayed behind his back. Ransom tapped out a bright little cadence. The drum was muffled against his folded legs, but Thowin was entranced all the same. His mouth hung open in awe.

Ransom hid a grin. He let his wrist rest on the edge of the drumhead, deadening his next few drumbeats. "Uh-oh," he said. "I think my drum's broken." He lifted the drum to his ear and shook it, frowning. "It's not making any sounds."

Thowin's eyes widened in concern. He stepped closer.

Ransom made a show of scratching his head and harrumphing in puzzlement. "I don't know what happened. Do you think you could help me?" He flipped his sticks around and offered them to the boy. "Maybe it will work for you."

After a moment's hesitation, the boy accepted one drumstick, wrapping his chubby fingers around the wooden shaft. His knuckles were still hidden beneath dimples in the baby fat left on his hands. He gave an experimental tap on the drumhead. At the sharp sound, a gap-toothed grin spread across his face.

"You fixed it!" Ransom cried with a huge smile. He offered the second stick. The boy took it immediately and set to tapping on the drum with both arms, his grin widening.

Ransom looked up to see Dared watching them with a small smile. The Harper met his gaze and winked.

"There you are, Riand!" A skinny girl appeared in the classroom doorway, fists precociously planted on bony hips. "We've been looking for you! Good day, Harper," she added with a respectful head bob in Dared's direction.

The boy waved a hand still clutching a drumstick. "I'm pwaying a dwum!"

She sighed and beckoned him over. "Stop bothering the harpers, Riand!"

Dared waved away her scolding. "He's not a bother, Rielle. Go on with your sister, Riand. I don't want your mother after me for making you late to lunch."

Riand nodded and surrendered the drumsticks.

"We'll play again another time," Ransom assured him.

"Say goodbye to the harpers, now," Rielle said bossily, holding out a hand to him as he ran to her.

"Bye Hawpuh, bye Wansom," Riand called over his shoulder. He took his sister's hand and they left, the sound of Rielle's scolding floating after them.

Dared chuckled. "Good with children. Another quality to add to your list of assets."

Ransom shrugged, suddenly self-conscious again. "I like kids."

"Good. You'll have an easier time teaching." Dared hauled himself to his feet with a low oath. "I haven't the heart to confine you to dull work quite yet. You're free for the afternoon."

"That's it?" Ransom asked. He had expected a list of chores longer than his arm.

"Consider it a consolation for the tasks I'll load you with later. I need you back here at sixteen hours to practice for this evening's music. Bring your tambour and pipe. I haven't caught my breath quite yet from journeying." He smiled in a self-deprecating way. "Off you go."

Ransom stowed his drum on a shelf and clopped downstairs to the courtyard. He didn't see Roe in the queue of apprentices waiting for lunch packs. Petrand and the other seniors were absent as well. Hoping all was well down at the Crafthall, Ransom picked up a lunch and headed out the Hold gate.

Most of the younger apprentices hung around the Crafthall during the lunch hour. Two boys tussled in the dirt, eager to expend energy from being cooped up inside. Another group of apprentices were kicking a worn hide ball in a circle. Ransom dodged around them, watching warily for Petrand and his crew. They weren't in sight. He spotted Roe sitting at a table at the edge of the Crafthall's courtyard. Layla was with him, of course. Ransom didn't mind the weaver girl so much. If she championed Dared, she couldn't be too bad.

"I see you're still normal colored," Layla remarked as he sat across from them with his lunch.

"Orange dye can't do much to my skin," Ransom replied.

"Actually, it's closer to yellow ocher."

"Whatever. How long does it last?"

Layla shrugged. "I don't make it a habit to dye my face. Maybe a few days? Take soapsand to his skin and it'll slough off sooner."

Ransom made a face, remembering how Kesandra had scrubbed him down after he got in an ink fight once with Roe. It had been about as fun as trimming a wherry's toenails. He gave his brother a resigned shrug. "Sorry, Roe. I guess you're stuck like this for a little while. How did this morning go?" He added a silent _Did anyone bother you?_

Roe smiled and shook his head.

"Where are you placed today?"

_Loom work with Journeyman Cheu. I've passed all the basic assessments._

"You're back." Teg settled on the bench beside Ransom. He helped himself to some of Ransom's bread and saluted the other two. "I asked for your new cots this morning. They'll be ready by tonight."

"Thanks, Teg," Ransom said with a smirk as the skinny Tillek boy tore a sizeable chunk off of his meat roll. "Didn't get to eat lunch?"

"Nah, I ate. Jus' saw you eating by yourself an' thought I'd help." He chewed happily and wiped his hands on his tunic. "So Layla, you hear Brenthon's plannin' to tap an apprentice? Rumor has it he'll even let 'em work on the tapestry."

"I heard," Layla said, feigning indifference.

"Who you wager it'll be?" Teg waggled his eyebrows and leaned forward.

"None of the current seniors, that's for sure," Layla replied. "They're rubbish with wool unless it's still on the sheep."

"Me, I got my marks on that Nabolese kid."

Layla wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "He's already Cheu's favorite. I don't think Brenthon'd steal him."

Teg narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "You're pullin' for yourself to get tapped, aren't you?"

The weaver girl smirked. "I won't deny it."

"Eh, what with the sorry seniors we got, I guess you got a chance. It'd be a sad day for the Crafthall, though. Ouch!"

Layla folded her hands primly while Teg rubbed a sore shin.

Ransom shook his head in sympathy. "Girls." He quickly turned his knees away as Layla scowled at him.

"Look at that!" Teg leaned across the table to stare at Roe's slate. He cast a shadow over the table and Roe looked up, chalk poised in the middle of a sketch.

Layla touched the older boy's shoulder. "That's beautiful! Who are you drawing?"

He grinned at her and motioned across the table.

Teg turned the slate around to look at it right side up. "Oh. It's you, Ransom. Take a look." The sketch was still in its gestural stages, but Ransom could recognize his nose and the shape of his face.

"I didn't know you could draw," Layla exclaimed.

"Roe's an artist," Ransom said proudly. "He was the best at drafting designs in Southern Boll."

"Maybe I should put some marks on him," Teg said.

"Too bad he wasn't transferred earlier," Layla said regretfully. "The Weaver Masters would've had time to get to know him and he might've had a real chance."

Something slammed into the back of Ransom's head, nearly smashing his nose into the tabletop. For a moment, his vision darkened at the shock. He spun around to sparse laughter. The hide ball that was being kicked around earlier rolled away from the table, back into the courtyard. Petrand stopped its progress with one foot.

"Watch it!" Ransom said, resisting the urge to rub his sore head.

"Relax," Petrand said. "It was an accident. Next time, I'll try to aim around your big head."

Layla snorted. "Aim? You couldn't hit a bronze dragon if it was sitting in front of you!"

"Why don't you go card some wool?" Petrand's friend sneered. Ransom recognized him from their dousing.

"Sorry, I'm too busy on a floor team," Layla retorted. "Maybe if you didn't have slop for brains, Sammal, you'd be on one too."

Sammal's face darkened and he took a step forward. Petrand lobbed the ball at his chest. Sammal caught it by instinct, stopping in his tracks.

"Gonna let a little bitch's yapping get to you?" Petrand taunted.

Ransom stood angrily. "Don't call her that!" he shouted.

Petrand laughed and turned his back to them, motioning for Sammal to pass back the ball. "I'm just naming things as they are."

"Sit down, Ransom," Layla muttered. "Come on, they're just stupid bullies trying to get to you."

"Take it back, Petrand," Ransom said.

Petrand balanced the ball on the top of his foot. "No, don't think I will."

Ransom stepped over the bench, but Teg caught his arm. "Are you crazy?" the Tillek boy hissed. "Starting something what with all the journeymen swarming about?"

"Don't be stupid, Ransom." Layla said. "Look, I appreciated you standing up for me, but you need to calm down."

"Listen to your girlfriend, harper," Petrand said, still turned away from them. "Sit down and take care of your idiot brother."

Ransom yanked away from Teg. "I'm warning you, Petrand. You had better shut it."

"Or what?" Petrand asked. He turned, a broad smirk on his face. "Or what, harper?"

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the lunch hour. The rest of the apprentices in the courtyard began to filter back towards the Crafthall.

"What are you going to do, harper?" Petrand pressed.

"See if you're as quick with your fists as you are with your mouth," Ransom said, lifting his chin defiantly. He ignored Layla's groan behind him.

Petrand crossed his arms with an appreciative smile. "Well, well, well. Harper's singing a new tune. Tonight," he said decisively. "After curfew, behind the craft store rooms."

"No funny business," Ransom said. "Just you and me."

Petrand laughed. "The boys'll be disappointed for such a short fight. If you show up."

"I'll be there," Ransom shot back.

Petrand flicked the ball up with his toe and caught it, tucking it under his arm. "Come on, Sammal. We've got a real craft to learn." The two boys joined the last of the apprentices heading toward the Crafthall.

"Ransom, you are a royal idiot," Layla declared. "How could you be a harper when you're so stupid?"

"I wasn't about to let him get away with what he said," Ransom retorted.

Teg shook his head slowly. "Played right into his hands. He's a bully. Ignore 'im for long enough and he'll get bored and leave you alone. Reacting is exactly what he wanted you to do."

"It's not in my nature to lie down so a bully can walk all over me."

"He's got at least a foot and twenty pounds on you," Teg continued.

"Your big mouth is going to get you in a lot of trouble," Layla said. "You better not go tonight." She tugged on Roe's arm. "Come on, we have to get back for afternoon tutorials."

Roe gave him a worried look as he stood.

_I'll explain later,_ Ransom signed back. His brother nodded over his shoulder and followed Layla back to the Hall.

"I'll go with you tonight," Teg said, swinging his legs over the bench.

"You don't have to. This is between me and Petrand."

"Petrand's not known for fighting fair. This way you got a witness what isn't one o' his cronies." Teg grinned and flexed a skinny arm. "I don't look like much, but no one can say what Tillek fisherfolk don't work hard. I'll be there if you get in a pinch."

"Thanks," Ransom said grudgingly.

"No one likes a bully. I'm willing to back someone what stands up to one, so long as it's not my behind getting beat."

"That's…noble of you."

"I do my best. Stay outta trouble until tonight, hear?" The Tillek boy stood and threw a jaunty salute before following the rest of the apprentices down the hill.

Ransom gathered up the remains of his lunch, no longer hungry. His third day at Ruatha and he was already planning a fight. Layla was right. He was a royal idiot. He sighed, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. This was the last time, he told himself. He had to fight this once to end Petrand's bullying, then he would stop fighting for good. Feeling grim, he shoved his hands in his pockets and started the long trudge back up to the Hold.

* * *

Readying for a long evening of music, Dared chased another of Miyra's herbal infusions with a mug of klah. He had already dismissed Ransom after a few hours of practice and called down to the kitchen for a headache tea.

"I don't know why you even bother with the infusions," Miyra grumbled from the doorway of his quarters. "Klah completely cancels out the effects."

"It works for me," the Harper replied, slinging his gitar over his shoulder. "Your infusions are wonderful, my dear woman, but for their slightly soporific effect. I need klah to keep me awake."

"No, you need sleep," Miyra countered. "How much have you slept in the past few days?" He looked awful, which was becoming a worrisome norm. At least he wasn't the half-dead ex-dragonrider she knew six Turns ago. Overwork was better than lifeless lethargy, she supposed. If he was talking and moving, then he had to be breathing.

"Enough to get by."

"How many cups of klah have you had today?" she pressed. "Enough to drown in?"

Dared contemplated the ceramic bottom of his mug for a moment. "I can't quite remember. But we've already discussed this." Many, many times. He refuted her arguments with the bland ease of habit, his mind on his conversation with Aegellan and Haligon, and on the events of the past few days.

"You can't go on like this—"

"I have no choice."

"Oh, stop being dramatic."

"My dear woman, do I sound dramatic in the least?" Dared asked mildly. "If you want to quibble about health, I might ask you what you're doing on your feet. Who let you climb the stairs up here?"

Miyra's belly swelled roundly beneath her crossed arms. She shifted her weight, her feet already sore. "I'm pregnant, not crippled."

"Crippled is a relative term, my dear." Dared offered her his arm at the top of the steps. Despite herself, the midwife accepted the gesture. A pregnant midwife and a one-legged harper. What a pair they made. She found herself leaning on the tall Harper more than she had expected as they descended the stairs. Evening was falling fast as dinner was being laid out in the main hall.

"Really, Miyra, you should think of the child," Dared said as they walked together toward the kitchens.

"I do, Dared. He never lets me forget. The little boy's got a kick like a mule."

"You're sure it's a boy?"

She smiled sheepishly. "No. Barrak wants a girl, so I'll hope for the opposite. That way, whichever it is, at least one of us will be happy."

"Does Barrak know how you're trotting all around the Hold?" Dared asked.

"Don't bring my husband into this."

He pouted and struck a theatrical pose. "But I've already challenged him to a duel for your hand. I'm afraid you'll find him a grave man in the morning."

Miyra snorted. "Rascal. And you stole that line from somewhere."

"I' m a Harper." Dared winked and bowed, prematurely silvering hair falling into his eyes. "Appropriating words is what I do."

"How do things fare with the northern Holds?" Miyra changed tack, dropping the health discussion for another day.

Dared stopped at the threshold to the kitchen, his jovial air fading. "High Reaches and surroundings are still resistant. Merika made more enemies than friends while she was Weyrwoman at High Reaches. The Holders aren't eager to ally themselves with more dragonriders while the skies are free of Thread. Masterharper Moregan will have me return in a few days."

"Aren't the northern harpers equipped to handle the situation?"

"Naturally. My involvement is at the request of the Masterharper and Benden Weyr. I have a unique perspective that we hope will help sway them." His eyes took on the hollow stare that she hated and feared. As if sensing her anxiety, he straightened and smiled wanly. "Enough politics. You look weary."

"Says the watch wher calling a tunnel snake ugly." Miyra took the sting out of her retort with a worried smile.

"If you have the energy, you and Barrak should join the singing tonight. My new apprentice has arrived, and tonight is his debut."

"Moregan's boy?" Miyra asked. She had never met the Masterharper, but she had heard enough of Dared's stories to feel like she knew him.

"Both of them. I'll arrange an introduction soon." Dared bent and lifted her hand to her lips, faultlessly playing the gallant cavalier.

"Shameless flirt," Miyra said dryly.

"You are the wing beneath my winds."

Miyra laughed as he belatedly caught the slip and smacked his forehead. "Not quite, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"What a hapless harper I make. Tongue-tied and trite. I must be getting old," he mused, running a hand through his hair. "I'm going grey, you know."

Miyra shoved him off the threshold. "Get going, you fool." He laughed and threw her a smart salute. For the umpteenth time, she gave silent thanks that he had chosen to live instead of fading into oblivion all those Turns ago. The tall figure limped through the darkness toward the main hall, the weight of half a continent on his shoulders.

* * *

The evening meal passed in a blur. Ransom barely remembered eating. A pile of poultry bones sat on his empty plate, but he had no recollection of how they tasted. He could only think of the fight, and the fact that he had to perform in a few minutes. His palms began to sweat. He wiped his hands on his trousers. Sweaty hands led to dropped drumsticks, but they wouldn't affect him in a brawl. He swallowed hard as he looked out over the main hall in an attempt to distract his thoughts. The graceful room seemed packed with people. He sat with minor members of Lord Haligon's household—three fosterlings and a younger cousin—to the left of the head table where Dared sat with Lord Haligon and his close connections.

Ruatha's lord had a booming laugh that seemed at odds with his rail-thin frame. He was often bantering with his lady or in discussion with Dared and his nephew, bushy eyebrows wagging animatedly as he spoke. At one point, his laugh startled one of the serving drudges into nearly dropping a platter of meat into his lady's lap. Aegellan, on the other hand, was quiet and sober. The fine bones of his face rarely showed more emotion than a half-smile. Although he didn't seem to have his uncle's good humor, he shared Haligon's wiry build.

Haligon had just elicited a rare smirk from his nephew when a familiar voice redirected Ransom's attention.

"So, you get into any more fights since I saw you last?" Layla slid into the vacant seat across from him. Close behind her, Roe came and sat beside him.

"Hullo Roe. What are you doing here, Layla?" Ransom asked, though he was glad for her company.

"Not serving soup, that's for sure. You're not really going to fight after this, right?"

"You came here to talk to me about that?"

"No, I came here to sing, but I thought I'd beat some sense into your thick skull while I was at it."

"You can sing?"

"Of course I can sing. Harpers aren't the only ones who can warble, but don't change the subject."

Roe tapped Ransom's shoulder. _Layla told me what happened earlier, _he said with a reproachful look._ You can't be serious about fighting Petrand._

"You didn't hear what he was saying!"Ransom replied. _He was abusing Layla as well._

_She told me. It's good of you to defend her, but this is too far. Fighting won't do anything but get you into trouble._

_Doing nothing is no better in my experience._

_That's because you never wait long enough! When will you stop?_

_Once I get Petrand to leave us alone._

"Sorry to interrupt, boys," Layla said, touching Roe's arm to get his attention. "It's time, Ransom."

Dared was nodding in their direction from the head table.

_We'll talk about this later, _Ransom said. Roe glowered at him. Heart thumping, Ransom pulled his pipe from beneath the bench and followed Layla to the head table.

Dared stood and set his good foot on the bench, giving his gitar a quick tune. He flashed Ransom a heartening smile before announcing in a voice that carried across the hall, "Holders and ladies of Ruatha, may I introduce my new assistant, Harper apprentice Ransom, the son of Masterharper Moregan."

Wishing he could jump _between_, Ransom hid his dismay in a stiff bow. A scattering of applause and approving murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Dared plucked a gentle melody as he continued to speak. "Here is to change and new beginnings, to growing and flourishing, while maintaining our roots in tradition. What do we do in uncertain times but look to the future, listen to the wisdom of the past, and seize the present day?" He struck the opening chords of an old springtime song. Recognizing the tune, Ransom readied his fingers on his pipe and picked up the melody on the next downbeat. Dared's warm baritone sang out, joined by a sweet soprano harmony. Ransom nearly played the wrong note as he realized Layla was singing. Her voice was clear and her pitch true, subtle vibrato adding depth to her phrasing. She met his surprised stare with a wink, uneven green eyes laughing at him. So the girl could sing. Unwilling to be outdone, Ransom changed his tune to a countermelody that danced around the two voices, dipping and weaving like a firelizard in flight. Layla's eyes widened in appreciation. She gave him a small nod. The girl could sing and the boy could play. They were even, for the time being.

The hall burst into applause when the song came to a lilting close. Favorite tunes and requests were called out over the clapping. Dared, weariness smoothed away by a delighted grin, mouthed the title of the next song and they began again. So the evening went on, voices accompanied by clever fingers on strings and stops. The three musicians wove their songs into a tapestry that filled the hall.

Ransom's lips were tired by the end of the night, but he didn't notice. His mind buzzed happily as it always did after a performance. He could almost forget the afternoon's incidents. He and Layla returned to the table where Roe sat doodling on his slate. The hall was emptying as drudges shuffled in to clean. The whisk of brooms floated through the low murmur of voices.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Layla asked. She leaned over to look at Roe's slate. "What are you drawing now? I showed Levine Roe's drawing," she said to Ransom. "She was impressed."

"You didn't tell me you could sing," Ransom said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You never asked," she replied with a smug smile. "Dared coached me."

For Layla's benefit, Roe scrawled beneath his drawing, _How was the music tonight?_

"Good," Ransom replied. He jerked a thumb at Layla and winked. "Except for her. She sings like a dying wherry."

"Whatever happened to 'Harper blue, harper true' and all that?" Layla said, clipping Ransom's shoulder as she reached for the slate. "I thought harpers were supposed to tell the truth."

"We do," said Dared, joining them. Aegellan had gone, leaving the head table empty. "Occasionally though, one must ask, what is truth?" The Harper paused to give them each a measured look in turn. "But enough of philosophy and on to real questions." His gaze settled on Roe in puzzled curiosity. "My dear boy, why are you orange?"

Layla stifled a laugh. "Don't worry, Dared. It's just dye."

"Dye?" The bemused Harper arched an eyebrow. "I thought you were coloring skeins, not skins. What is Brenthon getting up to nowadays? I've always applauded innovative thinking, but this—? It's beyond me to comprehend." He shook his head and straightened up with a groan of effort. "Ransom, you'll have me again in class tomorrow. Report to the classroom, same time as today. You younglings enjoy the evening. I'm taking these old bones to bed."

The Harper clunked away and the mood at their table sobered.

"Ransom," Layla said. "You aren't going to go tonight, are you?"

"Of course I'm going," Ransom replied. "I challenged him. I can't back down now."

"Yes you can. It'd be stupid to go."

"It'd be even stupider to run away."

Layla shook her head in exasperation. "Boys. You're going to get the tar kicked out of you."

"Thanks," Ransom said dryly. "Your confidence in me is astounding." He knew the odds were against him, but he had fought bigger boys before.

"Come on," Layla said with a sigh. "I'm off scullery duty for once. Let's get outta here before Winna sees and loads us with a mountain of chores." She slipped from the bench and headed towards the main doors.

The boys followed her into the courtyard. Under the silver light of the moons, they didn't notice that the Harper's windows were still illuminated. Dared hadn't gone to bed as he had said he would. He meant to sleep eventually, but messages and letters lay heavy on his mind, waiting to be drafted. There was no putting them off till the morning. He had wheedled a jug of old klah from one of the kitchen staff and clumped to his quarters to work. The dimming glows in Dared's study weren't to be extinguished until the stars were all but faded from the predawn sky, relinquishing his quarters to just a few hours of darkness before the new day.

* * *

The dorm assistants walked through and lidded all the glowbaskets once curfew began. The room was plunged into darkness. Ransom lay on his lofted bunk, fully dressed, waiting for the assistants' footsteps to recede. In the cubicles around them, boys coughed quietly and tossed on their narrow cots. His heart beat loudly in his ears. On the way back to the dorms after dinner, he had scouted out back door of the dorm. It was simple enough to slip the lock and steal out.

The dorm quieted. Ransom sat up and let himself down silently. Roe still lay on his bunk, his face toward the wall. They hadn't spoken since dinner. His brother was angry with him, but there was nothing Ransom could do. He shrugged on his jacket and stepped into the hall. He slipped past open cubicles to the stairs. Teg was already at the back door, working on the lock.

"This mean that Petrand hasn't left yet?" Ransom whispered.

"Probably didn't even come in for curfew," Teg replied. "Dorm assistants let the seniors do what they want." The metal tumblers in the lock clicked and Teg lifted the latch free. "Let's go."

A hand gripped Ransom's shoulder from behind. He spun around, fists raised.

"What are you doing here?" Ransom hissed, lowering his arms.

Roe pretended to punch Ransom in the face. _What kind of brother would I be if I let you go by yourself to get thrashed? _He frowned in admonition._ This doesn't mean I approve, though._

_I know,_ Ransom signed back with a smile. _I'm glad you're here anyways._

The brothers stole out of the dorm, leaving the door open a crack behind them.

"Ah, you brought backup," Teg said. "And he's tall, too. Good. Most o' the seniors are at least a head taller'n us."

"You two aren't going to be involved," Ransom reminded him. "This is—"

"—just between you and Petrand, I know," Teg said. "I just like to be prepared. I grew up on a fishing boat, you see. Out on the ocean, things can change faster'n a dragon jumping _between._"

The Craft storerooms were a cluster of low buildings huddled behind the Hall. The three boys crossed the path and an empty field gilded with silver moonlight. Ransom's breath appeared like a wisps of smoke in the air as they walked.

They turned the corner of the storeroom to flickering torchlight spilling over the dirt. The buildings nestled up against a ridge, leaving a little yard closed in on three sides. Petrand, Sammal, and four other seniors sat on stacked crates, passing around crude rolls of smoking leaf as they waited.

"What do you know," Petrand said, exhaling smoke in two thin streams. "A harper's actually making good on his word."

Sammal elbowed the curly-haired boy next to him. "You owe me half a mark, Nils."

"We didn't think you'd show up," Petrand said with a smirk.

"I'm here now, aren't I?" Ransom replied.

"That you are. Let's get to it." Petrand stubbed out his smoking leaf on the crate and stood. The other boys stood with him, exchanging knowing looks.

"Just you and me, Petrand," Ransom reminded him.

"I see you didn't come alone. Is Tillek Twig babysitting your brother or what?"

"They're just here to watch."

"As are my boys. Even though I told them it wouldn't be much of a show." Petrand stripped off his jacket. He stepped away from the crates and faced Ransom, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "Let's see it, harper. Let's see if you can back your mouth with your fists."

Ransom pulled his jacket off. Teg stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "How long you fighting for?" he asked the weaver boy, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Till he's had enough," Petrand nodded towards Ransom.

"Be sure you stick to that," Teg said. "Everyone walks outta here tonight, yes? No one wants Hold authority on our butts 'cause of some 'accident.'"

The other boys rolled their eyes, but nodded all the same.

"Relax, Tillek," Petrand said. He stretched out his shoulders and rolled his head back and forth. "I'm not going to kill your boyfriend. Now can we get started or what?"

Ransom handed Roe his jacket and stepped up to Petrand. The other boy held his arms loosely at his side.

"Go on," Petrand said, looking down at him with a sideways smirk. "Since you're new here, I'll let you have the first go."

Ransom shook his head. "No, that wouldn't be fair to take advantage of you since you're so obviously handicapped."

Ransom almost didn't duck Petrand's fast right hook in time. He dodged to the right and danced away. Stupid, he scolded himself. Standing flat-footed to bandy a few insults. He shook off the initial shock and raised his fists. Petrand came at him a second time, lunging forward with jabs aimed at his head. Ransom dodged away again, waiting to get a measure of Petrand's speed and reach until he tried anything.

"Gonna run away all night?" Petrand taunted as they circled around each other.

"All night? I thought you said this was going to be a short fight."

"He's sloppy!" Teg yelled from the side. "Get under while he's flailing around and give it to 'im! He can't catch you!"

"You've got him, Petrand!" Sammal shouted amid the other boys' yells. "Smash him in that big mouth of his!"

Every move Petrand made confirmed Ransom's guesses about his style. He had fought enough bullies to recognize the routine. The weaver boy was big, strong, and overconfident. He didn't care about defense, only about pounding his enemy into the ground. Ransom couldn't match him in power, but as long as he stayed on his feet, he could read and dodge any punch the other boy threw.

Petrand feinted to the left and caught a glancing blow to Ransom's ear. Head ringing, Ransom pretended to stagger. Sneering victoriously, Petrand pulled back for the finishing punch, leaving his chest wide open. Ransom sprang forward, putting his weight into three quick jabs to Petrand's gut. The weaver grunted and hunched forward, sending his nose straight into Ransom's uppercut. Warm blood spurted down Ransom's hand as he heard cartilage crunch. The shock from the blow reverberated down his arm. Teg's ecstatic whoop cut through the other boys' groans.

It was the perfect sequence, but Ransom hadn't thought through a way out. Petrand managed to get an arm around his neck, trapping the smaller boy to his chest. Ransom struggled to get free. He pounded at the base of Petrand's ribs, but at such close range, he couldn't put his weight into any of his blows. Petrand shook his head and snorted out blood. He tightened his grip on Ransom into a proper headlock.

"He's done for now!"

Ransom could hear the senior boys crowing over the ringing in his ears. He scrabbled at Petrand's forearm around his throat and tried to ram his elbow into the other boy's diaphragm. Petrand bent Ransom forward and rammed his fist up into his gut. Ransom gasped, his knees buckling as the blows drove the wind from him. Petrand loosened the headlock, dropping him to his hands and knees.

Ransom tried to scrabble away, dragging air back into his lungs. Petrand grabbed him by the collar and landed a punishing blow to his eye. Spots of light burst in Ransom's vision and roaring blackness rushed around the periphery. He hit the ground hard, head spinning. His vision cleared enough to see Petrand straddling his waist, another fist flying towards his face. A barrage of blows battered his face and head, Petrand's weight trapping him down. He nearly blacked out, tasting blood before the weaver boy was finally dragged off of him.

"Petrand, stop!" Teg was screaming. "You'll kill him!"

"Get off me! Don't touch me, Sammal!" Petrand's voice was nasal and hoarse.

"He's had enough, Petrand," Sammal said, sounding shaken.

"I didn't hear him say so," Petrand snarled.

"Just look at him! He's beat, I tell you!"

Ransom rolled onto his side and coughed into the gravel. Blood filled his mouth and trickled onto his chin. Roe knelt over him, his pale face swimming in his vision.

"Did I win?" he slurred, trying to push himself up. His head spun and he dropped back to the ground, eyes squeezed shut until the vertigo passed.

"Think you're so smart now, harper?" Petrand shouted. "You should see yourself right now! You're pathetic!"

"Leave him be," Sammal said. "He's done."

"Let's go back to the dorm."

"You're mine, harper. Remember that the next time you think about opening your mouth again." The other boys' voices receded into the ringing in Ransom's ears. A long moment passed before he could hear normally again, silence slowly reasserting itself.

"Is he conscious?" Teg's hushed voice asked overhead.

Ransom raised one hand weakly. "Yes," he whispered. "Still alive." He forced one eye open. Teg and Roe's concerned faces looked down on him in the darkness. The other boys had gone, taking the torch with them.

"Shells, Ransom, you got beat bad."

_Can you stand?_ Roe signed anxiously. _We should get you to a healer._

"I'll be fine," Ransom mumbled around a split lip. "I don't need a healer." He propped himself up on one elbow with a low groan.

"You almost had him, I thought, what with your brilliant combination." Teg imitated Ransom's punches. "Then he trapped you with his arm and…" he blew out his breath and held up his hands.

Roe gestured to Teg and Ransom, pointing back towards the dorm.

"Ah, right," the Tillek boy said as comprehension dawned on him. "Let's get you up."

Teg and Roe helped him upright. Ransom's head swam nauseatingly. His stomach felt sick, though not just from repeated blows to the head. He had failed. Petrand won. The bully still had the upper hand. Ransom spat bloody mucus and caught his breath. Roe supported him on one side, crouching to match his height.

"We'll get you back to the dorm so you can clean up," Teg said, wrapping Ransom's other arm around his shoulders.

Ransom's head hung heavy as they started the long trek back to the dorm.


	4. Chapter 4

"You look worse than me, Ransom," Dared said hoarsely when Ransom met him at the classroom in the morning. The Harper's face was lined and grey. He sat on his high stool at the front of the class, nursing a mug of klah. "What happened?"

Ransom tried a smile, but could only manage a crooked grimace around his swollen lip. There were no mirrors in the dorm, but he knew his face must be a sight. At least the headache he woke with had dulled a little. "Just some fun with the other apprentices."

"When I told you I wasn't concerned with your antics, I didn't think you'd get your face rearranged right away," Dared said. "Is everything all right?"

"I'll be fine," Ransom reassured him. He held up his hands. "Don't worry, my hands are unhurt. I can still play."

"If you say so." Dared's face disappeared behind the ceramic rim of his mug.

Ransom unpacked his tambour in the silence. When the children began to file in, he ducked his head to hide his face.

"Wansom!" Riand waved from the door, clutching Rielle's hand. His sister guided him to his seat in the back of the classroom and ducked back out. Ransom gave him a little wave. He looked to the Harper as the class settled into their seats. Dared scrubbed a hand across his bleary eyes and cleared his throat.

"Good morning, class," he rasped, smiling as if it pained him at the treble response. "You remember Harper apprentice Ransom. He will take over your lessons from here. I expect you all to behave for him." He nodded at Ransom and gestured with a long fingered hand. Ransom gulped. That was it? Whatever happened to being coached through teaching? Dared had already sat back on his stool, massaging closed eyelids with his fingertips.

Ransom turned back to the class with a nervous chuckle. Little legs swung from the short benches, kicking idly at the air as eyes wandered around the classroom. Sander had pulled an index finger from his nostril and was about to wipe the byproduct on the skirt of the unknowing little girl next to him. Only Riand was watching him raptly, two fingers stuck idly in his mouth. Ransom cleared his throat and the fidgeting lessened, but didn't stop. Struck by sudden inspiration, he rapped out a bar of smart syncopation on his drum. The attention of each little one snapped to the front.

"Er, hello class," Ransom said, a flush of success steadying his nerves. "Let's begin with a review." His hands tapped out the opening cadence for the Duty Song. He inhaled slowly and unconsciously straightened up to open his chest, willing his voice to stay steady.

"_Drummer beat and piper blow, harper strike and soldier go!"_

Ransom's voice cracked in the middle of the line. He swallowed, his face going hot. The children didn't seem to notice. They had picked up the tune and sang with varying levels of gusto in several different keys. Encouraged, Ransom renewed his singing. In a room of off-key voices, who would notice if a pubescent crack slipped out every now and then?

Warming to the teaching role, Ransom drew on his memories of elementary learning in the Harper Hall. He adopted the enthusiastic voice and manner of the journeymen who had taught him as a child, throwing in a few fancy sticking tricks to reward his pupils' attention. The class passed in a whirl and Ransom found that even with all the little throats that couldn't carry a tune, he enjoyed teaching. And his voice had cracked only three times.

The children lost some of their bashfulness, piping a treble "Goodbye, apprentice Ransom" when he dismissed them. Ransom waited till the final little body had quit the room before releasing a sigh of relief. He turned to Dared to ask how he did, but the question got stuck in his throat as he saw the Harper's face. "Dared, are you well?"

The Harper was bent over, face contorted and pale. He gripped the knee of his bad leg with bloodless hands.

"What's wrong?" Ransom asked in alarm.

"My leg," Dared gasped. "Help me down. I need to stretch it out."

Ransom obeyed with alacrity, jumping to the Harper's side. The stricken man seized his shoulder, unable to put weight on his wooden foot. Ransom pulled Dared's other arm around his shoulders, ignoring the pain from the Harper's vise-like grip, and helped him slowly to the floor. A cry of pain escaped Dared as he tried to straighten his ruined leg.

"Do you need numbweed?" Ransom asked anxiously.

"No," Dared hissed through clenched teeth, falling back on his elbows. "Find Miyra. Midwife. She'll be in the kitchens. Bring her here."

"Miyra. Midwife," Ransom repeated in dumb confusion, unable to see the connection.

"Just go!" The cry tore from the Harper's throat, jolting Ransom into action. He sprinted from the room and made a skidding turn down the hall.

The kitchens were awash with people and platters of food for the midday meal. The steam filling the air was punctuated with shouted orders. Hands wielded knives, spoons, pots, reaching across tables for the right spices or garnish. Pans clanked, fires sputtered, and curses flew as fingers sprang back too late from hot metal. Ransom froze in momentary panic on the threshold of the scullery. How was he supposed to find a woman he had never met in this mess?

"Out of the way, boy!"

Ransom ducked around a drudge laden with slop buckets and into the barely contained chaos that cooking for an entire Hold entailed. He dodged through the bustle, asking "Miyra? Where's the midwife?" of each server and drudge he passed, earning shouts of "Move it!" and "How should I know?" for his trouble. A drudge turning the roasting spit finally pointed him to the cold room. Shouting breathless thanks over the noise, he worked his way over. The frigid air of the cooler felt heavenly on his face as he poked his head inside.

"Miyra?" he called desperately. "Are you in here?"

"What's the matter?" A petite, very pregnant woman emerged from behind a massive wheel of cheese. "Is there a birth?"

"No," Ransom panted. "Harper Dared needs you, for his leg. He's in a classroom upstairs."

Miyra nodded, her dark eyes widening slightly. She dropped her cutting wire and waddled to Ransom. She was startlingly pretty, with delicate features and olive skin. Her dark hair was braided and wound around her head like a crown, setting off her slender neck. Caught by surprise at her looks, Ransom didn't realize he was staring. She looked up at him with her hands on her hips. "What are you standing around for? Didn't you say the Harper needs help? Hop to it, m'boy and lead the way!"

They made their way through the crowded kitchen, Ransom worrying at their slow progress. Miyra was pregnant, yes, but couldn't she walk any faster? Two drudges lifting a roast off the spit blocked their path. Ransom groaned and craned his neck to find another route.

Miyra shook her head. "We'll never get out of here at this rate. I know what to do. Watch this," she said and lifted her voice to bellow, "Clear the way! The baby's coming!" The drudges, catching sight of Miyra's waving arms, leaped to the side, one nearly tripping over the crank handle. A path opened up immediately to the door and, to shouts of alarm and congratulations, Ransom and Miyra were nearly carried out of the kitchen. Miyra laughed once they were out of the din, offers to help or inform her husband politely dismissed.

"Never fails," she said with a grin. "One of the benefits of being a midwife is that you always have an urgent excuse to get away fast." They set off to the classrooms. Clear of the close confines of the kitchen, Miyra could walk surprisingly fast. "You must be Ransom. Dared told me about you. How long have you been here? Three days?"

"Four," Ransom said, lengthening his stride to keep up.

"And he's already got you running for me. Well, we might as well get to know each other. I'll probably be seeing a lot of you now that you're Dared's assistant. Be a dear and lend me your arm for the stairs." She seized his arm when he hesitated, bending it at the elbow and placing her hand in the crook. "There. Not used to helping little pregnant women up the stairs, are you? That's all right. You'll get a lot of practice with me around." She wasn't shy about leaning on his arm as they climbed the risers. "Why does he always have to have these episodes when he's upstairs? I'm pulling double duty here. Not much of a talker, are you? Oh, I guess you're shell-shocked. Don't worry, m'boy, the Harper will be fine."

Dared lay curled on his side, clutching his knee when they finally arrived at the classroom. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped into the collar of his shirt. Ransom helped Miyra to kneel beside him.

"I'm here, Dared," the midwife said soothingly. "Your leg acting up again?"

"It's bad this time," Dared gasped. "It feels like my foot's being burned off again."

"Try not to think about it, dear." Miyra probed the side of Dared's thigh with small hands. "It'll be over soon. Hold his leg steady, Ransom, right below the knee there." Ransom obeyed apprehensively. How much of the Harper's leg was missing? He hadn't asked. To his relief, his hands closed around flesh and bone instead of wood.

Miyra locked her elbows and pressed both thumbs into a spot midway between Dared's hip and knee. She bore down hard, concentrating her weight into her hands. Dared hissed in pain, his leg jerking in Ransom's hands.

"Almost over," Miyra murmured. "Hold him still, Ransom." After what seemed like an eternity, the Harper gasped and flopped flat onto the floor, limbs limp. His narrow chest heaved, his breaths slowly settling.

"There you are," Miyra said and sat back on her heels. She wiped her forehead on her sleeve. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"What happened?" Ransom asked in a hushed voice.

"Phantom pain," Miyra replied.

"Phantom … what?"

"Pain from a limb that's no longer there," Dared said. "I get it in my missing foot every so often." He inhaled deeply and propped himself up on one elbow. His face was regaining some color. He tapped his left temple. "It seems I'm still haunted by ghosts from the past." He caught Miyra's hand and squeezed it gratefully. "Thank you, Miyra. You are an angel."

"You harpers can't do anything without making a drama about it," Miyra replied, pressing Dared's fingers in return.

"When else can I enjoy your company, my dear woman?"

"You could always visit me, downstairs," she said with emphasis on the last word. She beckoned Ransom over. "Help me up, dear. Thank you. We should get some fluids in you, harper. Can you stand?"

Dared bent and extended his knee experimentally several times. "I hope so. I'd rather not spend the rest of the day languishing on my backside. I believe I can walk."

"Help him up, would you, Ransom?"

Ransom grasped Dared's trembling hands and pulled him upright. The Harper was surprisingly light, for all he stood head and shoulders taller. The older man held onto Ransom's shoulder to steady himself.

"This morning has been quite the induction," Dared commented sheepishly as they left the room. "You didn't know what you were getting into when you came in here, did you?" He gestured between the midwife and his assistant. "Well, now you've met each other. I'm sorry that the introduction lacked somewhat in grace and charm."

Miyra dismissed the apology with a wave of her hand. "It was good enough for me. I got a sampling of Ransom's mettle. He's got good nerves."

"He gets them from his mother," Dared said quietly.

Ransom's head shot up at the nearly inaudible comment. "You knew my mother?" He craned his neck to look the Harper in the face.

Dared's eyes met his for an instant before sliding away. "Yes, we were childhood friends." Ransom wanted to press Dared for more information, but the Harper spoke again as they reached the stairs. "Help the lady."

Amidst the unsettled thoughts in his head, Ransom remembered Miyra. He decided to wait until he was alone with Dared to ask about his mother again. He offered his crooked elbow to Miyra, who grinned at him.

"You remembered! Retention under duress. It's a good trait."

"You're a good teacher," Ransom replied, amused at the small woman's reaction. They carefully descended the risers, Dared's clunking following them. "How did you know what to do for Dared's leg?" Ransom asked.

Miyra shrugged. "Experience. My husband lost a hand a few Turns back. He was running a flamethrower crew and the machine malfunctioned. He was lucky the explosion didn't kill him."

Ransom winced, curling his free hand into a fist. If he ever lost a hand… "I'm sorry for your husband."

Miyra's eyes crinkled around the corners as she smiled up at him. "You're kind. It's not so bad for him, though. It only means that I fuss over him more than normal. But I thank you for the sentiment." She sighed when they reached the bottom step. "What I wouldn't give to never climb another stair again. By the way, my boy, what did you do to your face?"

"It's nothing," Ransom replied, turning his head away. "I just got in a bit of a tussle with another apprentice."

"Nothing my foot. Let me see that eye." Miyra reached up and gripped his chin. After a short perusal, she clucked sympathetically. "You haven't put anything on this! I'm surprised you can see out of it. Come with us to the kitchen and I'll put together a cold compress."

"I'm afraid I've lent Ransom to the Weaver hall for chores this afternoon," Dared said. "Forgive me, Ransom. I didn't know you'd be in need of nursing."

Miyra flapped her hand in dismissal. "Brenthon can manage without one pair of hands. That eye needs looking at."

"Thank you," Ransom said to the midwife. "I am grateful for your offer, but I'd rather not keep Master Brenthon waiting."

"It's an unholy fear that apprentices have for Craftmasters," Miyra said, shaking her head.

"Better fear than rampant disrespect," Dared said with a wry smile. "I can take her from here." He offered his arm. "You'll be with your brother's section, Ransom. Report back to my quarters once you're done. I have some copying for you to do."

"Go help yourself to some lunch in the kitchen," Miyra added. "You must be hungry. Never met a boy who wasn't hungry. If anyone asks, tell them Miyra gave you permission."

"Thank you," Ransom said. His stomach was grumbling, but he remembered he had left his tambour in the classroom. He trotted back up the stairs. Soon, he told himself, he'd find a way to get Dared on his own and ask him about his mother.

Miyra and Dared watched him go, leaning on each other for a moment to catch their breath.

"So, that's Sabina's son?" Miyra asked conversationally.

"Yes," Dared replied in a quiet voice.

"He's a good kid. Take after her much?"

At the Harper's silence, Miyra sensed the conversation was straying onto painful ground. She let the subject drop. She tugged on Dared's arm. "Come on, harper. Let's get you something to drink."

* * *

Ransom made it down to the Crafthall just as the apprentice sectionals were breaking up for chores. Dodging through the stream of apprentices heading to their various assignments, he looked for Roe and tried to stay out of sight of any hostiles. He spotted Layla first. She was stalking out to the yard armed with a wide broom.

"Layla!" he called. Dust rose with each footfall as he jogged over to her. The winter air was cold in his lungs.

She scowled at the sight of him. "So you fought anyways. I told you you'd get thrashed!"

"I wouldn't go so far as to call it a thrashing."

"Well your face tells me otherwise. I hope you've learned your lesson." She planted her free hand on her hip and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Yes. Don't let your enemy get his hands on you."

"I meant, keep your mouth shut and ignore the stupid bully."

"Dared's lent me to do chores with Roe's section," Ransom said to change the subject. He gestured around the emptying yard. "You know where he's been assigned?"

Layla sniffed and tossed her curls over her shoulder. "Roe's not with his section today. He got pulled for a special tutorial with Master Brenthon."

"Oh. Is that a good thing?" Ransom remembered the barrel-shaped weaver's brusque manner.

"Of course it is!" Layla exclaimed. "Brenthon's the craftmaster head of the whole hall! Roe's only been here three days and he's already been noticed. And everyone knows Brenthon's looking to mentor an apprentice." She twitched her skirt irritably and attacked a stray leaf with her broom.

Pride swelled in Ransom's chest. "Sounds like someone's a little jealous," he observed.

"I'm not jealous, I'm annoyed," she retorted tartly. She swept so vigorously that more dust ended up in the air around their knees than on the ground. "I've been an apprentice for four Turns, top of my class, too. But Brenthon's never given my work a second glance. You know why? It's because I'm a girl!" She punctuated the last three words with a vehement sweep of her broom.

Ransom stepped back, out of range of both broom head and handle. "I didn't think it was strange for girls to be weavers."

"It's not." Layla stilled her broom with a low curse as a bit of grit flew into her eye. "Carding, spinning, dyeing, weaving cloth. It's all work appropriate for women. But tapestries? Brenthon thinks only men are suitable for the work of designing and illustrating." She shot Ransom a quick glare, one eye red-rimmed. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. You probably don't care."

"I care," Ransom objected. "I know what it's like to face prejudice in your craft."

Layla let out a snort of disbelief. "Ransom, you're the Masterharper's son. I doubt you've ever had to deal with real prejudice." She adjusted her yellow overtunic. "Look, I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't remember where Roe's section was assigned, so why don't you just stick with me? At least none of the seniors have the yard. Here." Layla handed Ransom a thin metal spike. "Make yourself look busy so we don't get in trouble for talking. You use that to dig up any moss or greenery," she said, mistaking his annoyed frown for confusion. "Go on. Are you just going to stand there or what?"

Ransom scowled at the girl's turned back and closed his fist tight around the spike. It was no Gather day to be a son of a head Craftmaster. Worse still to be illegitimate and unwanted. He turned the spike over and over in his hands. Forget it, he told himself. He wasn't in the Harper Hall anymore. Ruatha was his home now and his father was miles away.

He scanned the yard, hefting the rude plant-digging spike. Moss or greenery? The dusty yard was devoid of anything green. Thread been gone six months, but they were in the middle of winter. Grasses flourished only in the pastures. He held the spike in a drummer's grip and flicked out an absentminded cadence in midair as he followed a few steps behind Layla. It was going to be a long afternoon.

The whistle finally sounded for the end of sectionals as Ransom helped Layla sweep a pile of debris into a dustpan. He straightened up with a sigh.

"You better clear out of here," Layla warned him. "The seniors might be headed back soon."

"They wouldn't do anything in broad daylight right by the Crafthall."

"No, but they might provoke you into doing something really stupid again. I'm looking out for your best interest."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine."

Layla fixed him with a searing glare and turned on her heel. Ransom followed her to the storage closet on the outside of the hall. To his relief, Levine was there, overseeing the first years as they put away the rest of the apprentices' cleaning supplies. A smile brightened the tall journeywoman's face as she spotted Ransom and Layla.

"Press-ganged into chores, were you?" she said with a wink. "Does this mean we'll see you around here regularly? That's a bucket, not a helmet, Fiyall." The other first years tittered as the scarlet-faced apprentice righted his bucket and held it properly. Levine turned back to Ransom without skipping a beat. "Your brother is quite talented. The other journeymen and I are very impressed with him."

"I told him about Brenthon tapping him for tutorial," Layla piped in.

"Of course. News spreads fast with you around, Layla." Levine's indulgent smile removed any sting from her words. "It seems excellence runs in your family, Ransom."

"Er, I guess it does. I mean, thank you, Journeywoman."

Levine laughed. "Call me Levine," she said, squeezing his shoulder familiarly. "Give my regards to the Harper when you see him."

Ransom relaxed at the journeywoman's warmth. He decided he liked her. Layla dug her elbow into his side as they turned away, following a thin path around to the front of the hall.

"Did you hear that? Levine's sweet on Dared," she said in a whisper. "I'd wager you a full mark on that."

"You can keep that mark if you stop elbowing me," Ransom grumbled. "Besides, you're crazy. How is sending regards a proclamation of love?"

Layla sighed and patted Ransom's shoulder. "You don't know anything about women."

"And that's perfectly fine with me."

"Just you wait, Ransom. You'll see."

Someone jostled him from behind and he stumbled. A well placed foot fouled his footing and, coupled with another shove, sent him sprawling in the dirt. Grit flew into his mouth and eyes and he rolled over, coughing.

"Sammal, you bully!" Layla cried. "Why can't you leave well enough alone?"

"You missed a spot when you were cleaning the yard, Layla." Sammal sneered as he passed by. "Left some harper rubbish lying about."

"Why don't you clean out the rubbish between your ears, you moron!" she shouted back. She knelt beside him, concern in her uneven eyes. "Are you all right?"

Ransom nodded and hauled himself to his feet with a groan. His middle was still sore from where Petrand had hit him. "How do you expect me to listen to you if you don't follow your own advice?"

"What do you mean?"

"'Keep your mouth shut and ignore the bully' and all that."

Layla sniffed. "Unlike you, I choose my comments so I don't get beat for mouthing off."

"That's because you're a girl—"

"—which means I'm smarter than you, so you should listen to me."

"I think I can handle it on my own, thanks."

"Like how you handled it just now, sprawled flat on your face?"

Ransom changed the subject. "Do you know when Roe will be done with his tutorial?"

Layla shrugged one shoulder, her manner cooling. "Brenthon isn't one to keep track of time. Unless he's the one waiting, that is."

"Will you tell Roe I was looking for him?"

"Leaving already?"

"I've got to make copies for the Harper."

"I'm sure you'll see Roe at dinner."

"Are you singing tonight?"

Layla shook her head with an exaggerated sigh. "Kitchen duties call. I trust you harpers will get along fine without me." She left him with a limp wave.

Despite what Layla had said, Roe didn't appear at the dining hall for the evening music. Ransom felt at a loss. Not even the thrill of performing with a talented musician like Dared could wipe away his worry. His brother had never failed to watch him play, even though the music meant little to the older boy.

Once Dared dismissed him, he left the dining hall to search. Layla was undoubtedly still in the kitchens when the playing was done. Ransom briefly wondered if she would know where Roe had gone. He looped around to the back door by the scullery. It was a cool night, a moist fog from the mountains settling down over the Hold. They hadn't been in Ruatha long enough for Ransom to become familiar with his brother's haunts, if he had established any already. The older boy had an interesting ability for finding secluded spots. When Ransom wanted to think, he would wander, but Roe simply closeted himself away.

Bright light and bustle filled the scullery. Ransom stood on the doorstep and peered inside. He couldn't spot Layla. The girl had been as busy as him in the evening. She probably didn't know where Roe was anyways.

Ransom stepped off the scullery threshold and out of the light. Maybe Roe was back at the dorm. A metallic clicking distracted him as he thought. Something about the sound was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. He wandered back into the courtyard, wondering if he should check at the Crafthall. Roe might have had extra work after Brenthon's tutorial. Or he might have been working on a drawing and lost track of time. Ransom was halfway to the Hold gate when it struck him. The clicking he had heard followed the help cadence used on harper signal drums. The drum language had been drilled into his mind by the journeyman in Southern Boll. Ransom had taught Roe some of the signals. The brothers spent a week communicating in taps instead of signs.

Ransom ran back to the kitchen door and listened for the clicking. The faint sounds came from a dark corner behind the scullery. A wide metal grate was set into the slick flagstones of the courtyard floor. Ransom dropped to his knees and peered through the grate into the drain below.

"Roe! How did you get down there?"

His brother looked up at him, pale fingers clinging to the metal grid. He held his belt in one hand, using the metal buckle to tap against the grate. A foul stench rose from the drain. Ransom covered his nose and tried not to gag. He could hear liquid sloshing at the bottom of the slimy hole as Roe tried to get a secure footing.

"I'm going to get you out of there! Hold on!" Careful to breathe through his mouth, Ransom gripped the grate and heaved with all his might. The metal creaked a little, but didn't budge.

"Can you push while I pull?" Ransom signed expressively in the darkness.

Roe nodded and braced both hands against the grate, his palms lined with black muck.

"Now!" Ransom pulled upwards and Roe shoved from below. The grate lifted half an inch. "We almost have it!"

Roe lost his footing and fell with a squelch. The heavy metal clanged back into place. Ransom swore, shaking his sore fingers. "Roe! Are you all right? Roe!"

His brother staggered to his feet, slime up to his elbows and soaking his trousers to the knee. The sound of gagging rose from the drain.

"It's too heavy, Roe. I can't lift it by myself," Ransom said. His brother was still hunched over, gasping for breath. "Roe!" Ransom dropped a pebble through the grate. It hit Roe's back and he looked up. "The grate's too heavy," Ransom repeated. "I'm going to find help. I'll be right back."

Roe nodded and wiped his nose on an unsullied square of sleeve. Ransom hopped to his feet and ran back into the courtyard. Most of the holdfolk had cleared out of the dining hall. He thought of Dared, but the Harper was undoubtedly busy. He spotted a stocky figure pacing up the stairs to the fire heights. The black tunic marked him as a member of the Hold guard.

Ransom sprinted to the stairs. "Sir!" he called. "Can you help me?"

The guard stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. "Ho there, who needs help?"

"My brother is stuck in the scullery drain and the cover is too heavy for me to lift."

"What? A scullery drudge fall in with the slops?" The guard clopped down the steps to the courtyard. Torchlight illuminated his face. No one would call him handsome—homely was generous.

"Will you help me?" Ransom pressed.

The guard nodded. "Lead the way."

Roe was still doubled over when Ransom and the guard reached the drain.

"Will you look at that! There is someone down there," the guard said as he peered through the metal. "We'll get you out in two bits," he called. He motioned for Ransom to take the other side of the grate. Ransom bent down and looped his fingers through the mesh. "On three, eh? One, two, three!"

Ransom and the guard heaved together and the grate scraped free. "There we go! Watch your fingers," the guard said as they dragged it off to the side.

Roe hauled himself up out of the drain, flopping onto the flagstones like a wet fish.

"Whew!" the guard stood back and wrinkled a squashed looking nose. "That smells worse 'n a wher's backside." He shoved the grate back into place and dusted his hands in distaste.

Ransom helped his brother up. "You okay, Roe?"

His brother nodded queasily.

"We'll get you cleaned up soon enough. Thank you," Ransom said to the guard.

"Not to worry. I'm just doin' my job. Name's Gabrien," he said with a gap-toothed smile. "Lowly member of the Hold guard."

"Thank you, Gabrien. I'm Ransom, Harper apprentice." He clapped Roe on the back. "This is my brother, Roe. He's a weaver apprentice."

"Pleasure to meet you both." Gabrien's homely face split into a grin. "How'd you end up in the drain, Roe?"

"My guess is a couple of weaver apprentices," Ransom said grimly. "We're new here, you see."

"Ah." Gabrien nodded in understanding. "It's a sorry welcome you've had to the Hold. I wager that's what happened to your eye." His expression grew stern. "These apprentices been givin' you a lot of trouble?"

Ransom shook his head. "No more than we can handle. Just a few pranks, you know."

"I seen my fair share of boys' pranks. Me, I got four younger brothers, an' I was hard pressed to keep 'em from getting their heads bashed in. Then I made Hold guard here. Most of my brothers been fostered out by now, so I got no one else to look after. You let me know if they give you any more trouble. You musical types should be respected."

"Thank you, Gabrien," Ransom said, taken aback.

"Say, can I hear you play sometime? I'm on watch most nights, so I miss the evening music." He whistled a snatch of a popular dance reel.

Roe's violent sneeze interrupted his brother's reply.

"I'm a crackbrained fool," Gabrien said, smacking himself in the forehead. "Natterin' on while you're standin' there in wet boots. You get on back to your quarters and get cleaned up."

"Thanks," Ransom said. "And I'll play for you sometime."

A broad grin spread across Gabrien's face. "You mean it? I got somethin' to look forward to now!" He saluted jauntily as he stepped back towards his post, whistling a merry tune.

"Sorry, Roe," Ransom said. "We'll go back now and get you cleaned up." Roe nodded miserably and they crossed the Hold courtyard to the gate.

Back at the dorm, Ransom waited until Roe finished bathing before asking him what happened. "Was it Petrand?" he said once Roe was dried and dressed in fresh clothes.

_How did you guess?_

Ransom snorted. "Scum seemed like his style." They must have jumped Roe right before the dinner hour. "How long were you in there?"

_The sun was still setting when they dropped me in._

"Why didn't you yell or something?"

Roe shrugged a thin shoulder. _I did, for a little while. No one came._

"How could they do that to you! They left you in rancid slop for two hours! Why'd they do it?"

Roe's crooked smile tipped into a smirk. _Probably just jealous of my good looks._

"It was because you were tapped for Brenthon's tutorial, wasn't it?"

_Maybe. I'm going to have regular tutorials with Brenthon. _He lifted his chin, his eyes shining with quiet pride. _He wants to work with me on drafting designs._

"Does that mean he's tapping you to be his mentee?"

Roe lifted one shoulder noncommittally. _Nothing official has been announced yet._ _Aren't you happy? _Roe asked. _You were the one concerned that my abilities would be underestimated._

Forcing a smile, Ransom nodded vigorously. "Of course I'm happy! That's great news, Roe."

_Your congratulations are overwhelming,_ Roe replied with a sardonic smirk. He punched Ransom's shoulder lightly.

Ransom could see that Roe's success gave him sweet satisfaction and even vindication over the other boys. It worried him. No apprentice from any craft looked kindly on being so far overshadowed by one of his peers. Maybe the prestige of Roe's new position would lend him protection. Ransom could only hope.

"There you are!" Teg poked his head into their cubicle. "Oh, your eye looks terrible, Ransom."

"Thank you," Ransom said dryly. "Are you here to invite us to dice?"

"Nah. Layla talked to Levine and they found a solution what washes dye off skin. Layla sent me up here for Roe."

"Really?" Ransom turned to his brother. "What do you think, Roe? Fancy not being orange anymore?"

Roe leapt up, his face splitting into an eager grin.

"They're waiting outside," Teg said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

_Maybe it'll get rid of that funky smell, too,_ Ransom signed.

Roe's reply was to cuff the back of his head on his way out.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for reading and for your reviews! If you have any critical feedback, I'd really appreciate it :) Please be completely honest what you think on issues like pacing, characterization, or anything else that comes to mind. Hope you enjoy reading!

oh, and I don't own the lyrics to the Question Song.

* * *

"I neglected to ask yesterday," Dared said as the classroom cleared the next morning, "but are you having trouble settling in here? It seems you've had a rocky welcome."

Ransom swallowed the question he had wanted to ask and shook his head, knowing his face said otherwise. His lip had gone down, but his eye was still swollen and purple. "It's nothing. Just the usual mischief apprentice boys get up to," he said with a nonchalant shrug. He was used to deflecting concern. Levine and Layla had fussed over him enough the previous evening. He was grateful for their help, but it made life easier to keep his trouble to himself.

"Very well. I've been told that you prefer to take care of yourself, but should you need it, I will help you to the best of my abilities." Dared pulled two stools together and motioned Ransom to fetch music stands. "I have a free hour and I'd like to assess some more of your skills."

"What instrument?" Ransom asked, pausing over his tambour case.

"Voice."

Ransom hid a grimace as he picked up two wooden stands from the corner of the room.

"Your voice has settled by now," Dared said, settling on a stool with his gitar in his lap. "It's time you resumed your training."

Ransom set the stands down in front of them and took a seat. "Has my singing in class been that bad?" he asked in an attempt at humor.

"Your phrasing was atrocious."

"I haven't sung in two Turns!" Ransom protested. "My range dropped an octave when my voice changed."

"Did you forget how to breathe during that time as well?" Dared lowered his stand to look his apprentice in the eye. "You're a musician. The fundamentals of musicality should never leave you, no matter your environment or skill on a certain instrument. So you've lost ground. Let's make the most of our time and gain it back."

"Is it back to breathing exercises for me then?" Ransom asked, dropping into a resigned slouch.

Dared plucked a few strings on his gitar and adjusted the tuning pegs. "No. I'm no Master Singer. I haven't the patience to watch you breathe. I want to explore the limits of your new range. Let's begin with scales." He strummed a chord in C. "You remember what to do."

Ransom straightened his posture and inhaled from his belly. He sang half scales and arpeggios up and down his range, Dared cueing each key on his gitar. The muscles in Ransom's throat loosened as he sang and some of the tension left his body. His voice was no pure soprano, but at least he could still hit notes on key. For the last few scales Dared strummed odd minor chords and Ransom fumbled for notes, trying to remember the right key.

The Harper nodded and plucked a queasy-sounding harmonic arpeggio. "Brush up on your minor scales. You've a solid tenor, flexible enough to sing contralto in a pinch. I'm afraid you won't ever sing as Moreta again," he said with an apologetic smile.

Ransom shrugged, though inwardly he glowed with relief. His voice hadn't cracked once, even in the higher registers of his range. "I suppose I could leave Moreta to the women and finally sing a male part."

"I trust you remember the rest of your sundry vocal exercises to practice on your own. That's enough of a warm-up for now." Dared pulled out two hide scores and passed one to Ransom.

Ransom scanned the unfamiliar music before setting it on his stand. "What's this?"

"A new song your father wrote. I'd like you to read it through with me."

"What's the instrumentation?"

"You sing, I play."

Ransom held in a sigh. Scales he knew, but he wasn't sure if he was ready for a cold read. He bent over the score to study it in detail. The key was solidly in his range, but the chording was unlike anything he had seen. Ransom frowned. It didn't look like his father's work.

Ransom sat up and nodded once he was ready. Dared tapped out the tempo for a bar, then struck the opening chord. It was the same uneasy arpeggio Dared had played at the end of the scales, followed by the odd minor chords. The tune was unsettling and Ransom couldn't help shifting in his seat as he drew in breath to sing.

_Gone away, gone ahead  
__Echoes away, gone unanswered  
__Empty, open, dusty, dead  
__Why have all the weyrfolk fled._

At the end of the first verse, Dared joined in, singing a high harmony that bordered on dissonance. The hair on Ransom's neck and arms rose at the eerie sound. Together, their voices painted a veil of haunting unease that settled in the room like fog.

_Where have dragons gone together?  
__Leaving weyrs to wind and weather?  
__Setting herdbeasts free of tether?  
__Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?_

_Have they flown to some new weyr  
__Where cruel threads some others fear?  
__Are they worlds away from here?  
__Why, oh, why, the empty weyr?_

The last chord hung in the air long after Dared struck it.

Ransom shivered involuntarily. "What was that?" he asked.

"Your father's attempt to memorialize the disappearance of the Weyrs," Dared said, still strumming a snatch of the melody. He smiled wanly. "Unsettling, isn't it?"

"Why would he pick a tune like that?"

Dared shrugged one shoulder, his eyes sliding slightly out of focus. "It is memorable."

"It makes my skin crawl. I don't want to remember the Weyrs like that."

"Moreta's Ride is how we remember the Weyrs. This Question Song is how we remember when they left." Dared began to rub his bad knee absentmindedly. "Actually," he murmured to himself, "from an ex-dragonrider's perspective, Moregan captured it fairly well."

"What happened to them? Do you think they went _between_ and never came back out?"

"Mass suicide?" Dared shook his head with a grimace. "No. Not for five full Weyrs of dragonriders and Weyrfolk."

"What then?"

Dared steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his thumbs, his hollow eyes darkening the otherwise pensive posture. "They went somewhere else. Probably where they were needed. Thread is gone here for now."

"And when it comes back?"

"Benden is still here. Perhaps the rest of them will also return." Dared shook himself as if to dislodge a bothersome insect. "But we digress." He leaned over and pulled another set of scores from a low shelf behind them. "I want you to practice these pieces on your own time. Right now, let's look at Herder's Ballad."

"What about this?" Ransom gestured to the music still on his hand.

"I think I've heard it enough for one day," Dared said, retrieving the Question Song and dropping another score in its place. "You're singing too much in your head. Start at the refrain." He ran Ransom through several tone exercises using sections from the Herder's Ballad. With frank feedback and encouragement, Dared slowly chipped away at Ransom's reluctance. "You're not singing an aria. Keep your tone dark to blend with the ensemble. If you're too bright, you'll stick out like a green in the queen's wing."

Ransom's head was whirling with corrections and advice when their lesson came to a close. He had forgotten more than he realized during his two Turn hiatus from singing. He was glad no one else had witnessed the lesson. Especially Layla. There would be no end to his grief if she found out she could sing better than him.

"Would you hand me my gitar case?" Dared asked with a self-deprecating smile. "I don't think my leg will allow any kneeling today."

Ransom obeyed, his heart suddenly in his throat. He had been waiting the entire lesson for an opportunity to speak. Dared's well-used leather case in his hands, Ransom stood and took a slow breath. "Dared," he began, his voice hoarse from singing. "May I ask you a question?"

"What about?" Dared asked, leaning over to slide the scores in their proper places.

"About—my mother."

Dared froze, one long arm stretched out to the shelves. His face became a rigid mask of hollowed eyes above a strained mouth.

Ransom faltered at the Harper's expression. "You mentioned that you knew her."

Dared straightened and stood in a burst of popping joints. "I did, but it was a long time ago." His hand shook as he took his gitar case from his apprentice. "Forgive me, Ransom, but I have a pressing appointment with Lord Haligon." He attempted to soften his leavetaking with a weak smile. "You did well today, Ransom. Sabina would be proud," he added in a low whisper Ransom wasn't sure he was supposed to hear. With his gitar still in one hand and his case in the other, the Harper turned and stumped from the room like a man being chased.

Ransom 's protests and questions died in his throat as the dust settled in the Harper's wake. What had happened? Ex-dragonrider or no, Dared's evasion was more than eccentric. Swallowing his disappointment, Ransom stored his tambour on an empty shelf and clumped into the hall. Dared was nowhere to be seen. For a man with only one leg, the Harper was speedy. Giving up, Ransom walked downstairs, his hands deep in his pockets. He spotted Layla's head of wild curls in the courtyard. She was carting a sack of dirty linen from the kitchens. She saw him approaching and lifted her chin in greeting.

"Ransom! Be a gentleman and help me carry this, will you?"

Ransom let out an exaggerated sigh and fell in step with her. "Do I look like a drudge to you? Actually, don't answer that," he said quickly as she smirked. "Here, let me carry it." He took the sack from her and slung it over his shoulder.

"Thanks."

"Where is this headed?"

"Down by Miyra and Barrak's, to the washer woman's cot." Layla pulled her hair back and fanned her neck. Her cheeks were flushed pink, warmed by the sun. "It's laundry day. During the summer, we make a trip down to the lake to wash everything. I used to go and swim when I was little. We'd race across the lake and see who could hold their breath the longest." She grinned, her eyes the translucent green of new leaves.

They walked beneath the Hold gate, Layla chattering as they went. She caught Ransom up on the Crafthall gossip—as much as could accumulate in one day—and he listened with half an ear as they turned down the fork towards the hillside cotholds.

A group of women were gathered around the washer woman's cot, sorting through bags of wash. Clouds of steam rose from behind the cot where huge cauldrons of water were boiling.

"Who's this, Layla?" A ruddy-skinned woman straightened from her sorting and gave Ransom an appraising look. "Another one of your young men?"

"She's got him carrying her laundry for him!" a second woman hooted.

Ransom blushed fiercely as the rest of the women laughed. He hurriedly set his sack down and backed away as if it were filled with tunnelsnakes.

"He's just being a gentleman," Layla said past an unsuccessful attempt to hide a grin.

"There's a shortage of his kind in these parts."

"He have a brother?"

"An older brother?" the first woman said with a smirk. "Gentleman he may be, but he's short a few Turns for my taste."

"Not for me! I'll take him if you aren't interested!"

Ransom's face was hot enough to cook an egg on either cheek by the time Layla finished bantering and took her leave. He walked as quickly as was polite, the washer women's laughs and heckling followed them back up the hill.

"Don't mind them," Layla said. "They're just having a bit of fun."

"What did they mean by 'another one of your young men'?" Ransom asked carefully.

"Just women wagging their tongues," Layla replied with a serene smile.

Ransom eyed her askance for a few steps before deciding to let the matter lie. Girls were a mystery to him. They were Roe's territory. He took a breath and changed tack.

"Layla, you know Dared fairly well, yes?"

"Of course I do," she sniffed. "Miyra may be the only person in Ruatha who knows him better. Why?"

"Has he ever mentioned a woman named Sabina to you?"

Layla gave him an odd look and shook her head. "No. Dared doesn't talk about women."

"Oh."

"Why do you ask?" A mischievous smile curved Layla's mouth. "Who's this Sabina?"

"No one," Ransom lied and hurriedly cleared his throat. "Have you seen Roe?"

Layla rolled her eyes. "Tutorial with Brenthon. He's as good as tapped as a favorite. It's not fair," she complained good-naturedly. "He shows up and wins the favor of the head of the Hall in just a few short days. He puts the rest of us to shame."

"Try being his brother," Ransom said dryly.

"Didn't inherit any of the same brilliance, did you?" Layla said, nudging him playfully with her elbow as they passed through the Hold gate and paused in the courtyard. "He must have gotten it from his mother."

Ransom rubbed his ribs and tried to smile. It felt like a grimace. A half-hearted chuckle got stuck in his throat like a chunk of dry bread. "I guess I should go practice then," he said, his voice cracking. "Keep up with the brilliant brother, you know." Layla's reply was lost as he turned around. He walked quickly back up to the classroom, wondering how he could get a tight-lipped Harper to open up.


	6. Chapter 6

"How long will Dared be gone?" Ransom asked Miyra as they sat down at his customary dinner table. The hall was slowly filling with holdfolk preparing for the evening meal. Two days ago, Ransom had reported to a set of written instructions on the worktable. Dared had been summoned to Fort Hold, leaving Ransom alone to teach class, perform the evening music, and copy a musty stack of moldering hides. The Harper had made good on his warning to swamp Ransom with work. Already exhausted and frazzled after only two days of taking over the Harper's responsibilities, Ransom was eagerly looking forward to his superior's return.

"At least a few more days. You have ink on your face, dear," Miyra replied, pointing to her own cheek for reference. "Meeting with Lord Holders is never an expedient process. Don't use your sleeve," she scolded, passing him a square of linen. "Ink doesn't wash out, you know."

Ransom grinned and returned to scrubbing his face. "You sound like Kesandra."

"I sound like any sensible woman who has had to launder ink-stained cuffs. Give me that napkin. You're only smearing it about." She snatched the linen and grabbed his ear to hold his head steady.

"I'm not five Turns old," Ransom grumbled, but he sat still. Miyra seemed too small and too pregnant to resist without risking injury.

"I won't let you represent the Harper craft looking like a blotting sheet," she said primly. "At least your face is in one piece now."

Ransom thanked her once she was done. In the few days of Dared's absence, Miyra had taken Ransom in under her wing, her sharp eyes catching everything, from fruit stains on his tunic to scraped knuckles from his latest run-in with Petrand's gang. It felt strange to have someone like a mother again. During his time in Southern Boll, Ransom had learned to take care of himself and his brother well enough. No matter if some of the niceties of dress and grooming had been left out. Ransom was grateful, however, and keeping Miyra's company lightened his load.

"There you are, Miyra. I'm sorry I'm late." A powerfully built, broad-shouldered man in a heavy leather jerkin sat down across the table from them. The bench creaked in complaint beneath him.

"As always. Let's hope the baby doesn't inherit that trait."

"You haven't introduced me to your friend," the man said in a light tenor, surprising for his girth.

"I was getting there," Miyra chided mildly. "This is Ransom, Dared's fosterling. Ransom, meet my husband, Barrak."

Ransom held out his hand in greeting before he remembered. Barrak only smiled genially and accepted the gesture, reaching across the table to grasp Ransom's right hand with his left.

"It's good to have another harper around, Ransom," Barrak said. He rested his muscular forearms on the tabletop. Ransom nodded, looking quickly away from the spot where Barrak's right wrist ended in a rounded stump of puckered scar tissue. He didn't want to stare.

"So you're Dared's new assistant?" Barrak asked, nodding toward the gap at the head table where the Harper normally sat.

"I'm supposed to be. Right now I practically feel like a replacement. Does this happen often?"

"Do you mean our Harper getting whisked away at some Lord's whim?" Barrak asked with a wry smile. "Only in the past few months. Like I said, it's good to have another harper around."

"But I'm only an apprentice," Ransom protested.

"There's no better way to learn than to jump right in and do it," Miyra said with a cheeky grin. "At least your duties are pleasant. In my line of work, you'd be plunged up to your elbows in—"

Barrak leaned over the table to hush his wife gently. "Here comes the Lord Holder."

The hall quieted as Lord Haligon entered on his lady Nedaxa's arm. His shoulders seemed bowed even further under the heavy brocade of his fine tunic. Aegellan stood quickly and pulled out the Lord Holder's chair for him. Haligon waved off the help cheerily and Aegellan turned his attention to the lady. Nedaxa sat frostily, acknowledging her nephew with only the slightest inclination of her head. As Aegellan took his seat, servers began streaming from the kitchens, bearing platters heaped with food.

Ransom's stomach grumbled audibly as the delicious aromas of roasted meat and spiced tubers reached him. Miyra laughed beside him.

"I heard that! Poor boy, has Dared been starving you?" She accepted a platter of greens from a server and heaped a hearty forkful onto Ransom's plate. "No one goes hungry while I'm around."

Barrak leaned over the table and winked. "You'd better believe it. Before I married her, I was skinny as a rail." He helped himself to a dish of lentil stew.

Miyra snorted. "Aye, with arms the size of tree trunks. You took over the smithy from Hormer Turns before I caught your eye. He didn't get those shoulders from my cooking, mind you," she told Ransom, pointing her fork at her husband. "I remember when I could wrap my arms around you," she said fondly.

"That wasn't too long ago, remember? About two months, I reckon. That's when the baby started getting big."

"Big nuisance," Miyra grumbled good-naturedly. "Takes after his father." She slid three juicy slices of meat onto Ransom's plate, looking him over with a measuring eye. "How old are you, Ransom dear?"

"Fifteen," Ransom answered around a mouthful of greens.

"Good. You've got plenty of Turns of growing left in you. At least you're taller than me."

"Most kids over the age of twelve are," Barrak teased.

"Not my fault that children are giants these days," Miyra replied tartly. "You should have seen the size of the woodsmith's little girl I delivered a fortnight ago!"

Barrak groaned and held up his hand. "Oh no, no birth stories right now, please. We're eating."

"Babies get born. It's a fact of life. Your stomach isn't _that_ sensitive, Barrak. I know from feeding you all these Turns!"

"You'll traumatize Ransom. The boy's only fifteen."

"Right." Miyra added a generous scoop of tubers to Ransom's food. "Wouldn't want to upset you while you're eating."

So the evening meal progressed, Ransom fighting a losing battle to clear food off his plate as Miyra piled more on. He warmed to the midwife and her blacksmith husband. They were an odd couple, yet perfectly suited for each other. Ransom finally stemmed the flood of additional servings by reminding Miyra that he had to play at the end of the meal.

"You've spilt some greens on your lap," Miyra observed.

Ransom set down his half-laden fork. "I forgot to ask Layla if she was singing tonight. I'd hate to play the music by myself."

Miyra dusted him off with a linen from the tabletop. "Don't fret. That's why I'm here. I've added my voice to Dared's on certain occasions."

"You do sing! Layla said something about it the other night."

Miyra nodded. "She would. Unless I'm mistaken, she'll join us too."

"Do you sing as well?" he asked Barrak.

The big man shook his head and laughed. "Only when no one's in earshot. I couldn't carry a tune if I had both hands and a bucket."

Worries quieted, Ransom tucked in again, though at a much slower pace. Layla appeared near the end of the meal, dragging Roe with her.

"Sit down and eat something, Roe," Miyra said, patting the bench beside her. "You're skinnier than Ransom."

"There she goes again," Barrak said. "She's found another poor, starving soul to feed."

Roe accepted a heaping plate of food with a somewhat bewildered smile.

_Go slowly,_ Ransom cautioned him. _Miyra will feed you till you explode._

The servers came to clear empty platters before Miyra had much of a chance. Ransom watched the head table anxiously, afraid he would somehow miss Haligon's signal. The Lord Holder was hunched over one armrest, his eyes closed. Beside him, Lady Nedaxa looked like she was venting her spleen. Her aristocratic features were drawn in disdain, jeweled fingers flashing to emphasize her point. On his other side, Aegellan stared in the opposite direction, his usually sober face looking as if it were hewn from rock.

Ransom only gave half an ear to the conversation around him, wondering what Nedaxa was saying. Layla was bragging about Roe to Miyra. Barrak offered tenor congratulations. Ransom fidgeted, anxious to get the evening's performance over with.

A cry rang through the hall. Ransom jumped, searching for the source of the noise. Conversations across the tables were silenced as tumult broke out on the main dais. Haligon had lurched forward, clutching his chest. Eyelids fluttering and eyes rolling, he gasped for breath. Lady Nedaxa let out a strangled scream. She half-rose from her seat, hands covering her mouth. Stony reserve abandoned, Aegellan snapped to action. He knelt by his stricken uncle and pulled him upright.

"Call for the healer! Guards!" Three black-robed men stepped up to the head table from their position behind the dais. "Bring a stretcher. The Lord Holder is ill. We must take him back to his chambers."

The lordlings on the other end of their table scrambled to their feet and crowded around Aegellan.

"What happened?" Layla asked in a hushed voice. "Miyra, could you tell from where you are?"

The midwife shook her head slowly, small hands held to white cheeks. "Might be something with his heart. This is terrible!"

For a big man, Barrak could move fast. He knelt by Miyra and wrapped her in a gentle embrace. "Do we need to leave? I don't want you to be overwrought."

Miyra wiped her eyes on Barrak's sleeve and lifted her head. "Don't be silly, Barrak. I'm a midwife, not some wherry-headed pregnant female with too many emotions."

Roe tugged on Ransom's sleeve. _What happened? _he asked, concern widening his blue eyes.

_Lord Haligon fell suddenly ill,_ Ransom replied. _I don't know._

The guards had fashioned a makeshift stretcher and were easing the Lord Holder onto it. Haligon was unconscious. His head rolled limply to one side. Aegellan took one corner of the stretcher and the four men carried him up the rear staircase out of the hall. The other ladies at the head table gathered around the weeping Nedaxa. They followed the stretcher out.

"Dared picked a fine time to leave," Miyra muttered, gripping Barrak's hand with both of hers. "Stay around, Ransom. You may be needed."

Ransom felt like a fair of firelizards were swooping around his insides.

Aegellan returned alone down the stairs. He stood on the dais, serious eyes sweeping the hall and landing finally on Ransom. "Harper apprentice!" he called, trotting to their table.

Ransom clambered ungracefully to his feet. "Yes, my lord?"

Aegellan seemed to tower over Ransom. His dark eyes bored into him with a fierce intensity. "Drum a relay message to Fort, requesting the return of Harper Dared and the presence of the Masterhealer. Lord Haligon has fallen ill. And send to Crom as well. Lord Daxel should know about his father's condition."

Ransom nodded dumbly, feeling frozen to the spot. In a moment of panic, his vocabulary of drum codes seemed to have fled his mind.

"I trust you to complete your duties faithfully and swiftly, Harper apprentice." Aegellan dipped his head in dismissal and stepped back off the dais.

Barrak's hand on his shoulder broke his momentary paralysis. "The harper drums are in the fire heights, Ransom."

"The fire heights," Ransom repeated dumbly, still trying to remember his drum codes.

"Layla," the blacksmith continued, "can you show him where they are?"

Layla nodded. "Come on!" She dragged Roe along behind her.

"Thank you!" Ransom called belatedly over his shoulder. He grabbed his pipe and leaped from the dais after them.

The three apprentices raced into the courtyard, Layla pointing out the stairs to the fire heights. The steps curved up around the stone tower of the heights, overlooking the crafthalls at the bottom of the hill. Full darkness had fallen and Ransom suffered a few stubbed toes on the ascent.

"Ho there, who's that?" a familiar voice called out as they reached the top. A torch swung in their direction, illuminating Gabrien's irregular features. The guard stepped toward them around a raised fire pit filled with dry kindling. "Ransom and Roe, is it? And a friend. What brings you up here?"

"Lord Holder Haligon's ill," Ransom panted. "I'm to drum out the message."

Gabrien's thick eyebrows shot up. "This way."

The massive signal drums sat on a platform raised to the height of the ramparts at the southern end of the fire heights. Gabrien and Roe helped Ransom drag off the heavy wherhide covers. The sticks were stored in an oilskin pouch tucked between the two drums. Ransom climbed up onto the platform, fighting off vertigo as the night breeze blew into his face. The platform had no walls, to allow the drums to ring out without being muffled.

Gabrien lit the signal fire in the brazier. The wood, doused with oil, leapt into flame. The heat of the signal at his back, Ransom faced south to the first relay station between Ruatha and Fort. He gripped the sticks and pounded out the code for the Fort relay, precise and true. The big drums sounded like thunder. Ransom slowed his sticking to make sure each individual beat was distinguishable. Each concussion of the sticks hitting the heavy drumhead reverberated throughout his whole body, vibrating in his chest and arms. He felt as if his body was an extension of the drum.

After the fourth repetition of the relay signal, a tiny light bloomed in the distance at the southern end of the valley.

"They're listening!" Ransom exclaimed, nearly dropping his sticks in relief. He adjusted his grip and beat out the message three times, ending with the cadence requesting confirmation. He quieted the heavy drumheads with his hands, waiting. Ransom's heart thudded in his ears as the silence stretched. The breeze picked up again, cooling his sweaty skin.

"Did they get it?" Layla's whisper was cut off by Gabrien's hissing shush. Ransom stared at the flickering tongue of firelight in the distance, straining his ears. Finally, he caught the faint staccato of the answering cadence from the relay station. They drummed back the same message three times. Satisfied with their accuracy, Ransom rapped out the order to relay and end communication cadence. The faint staccato rang out again, drumming out the Fort relay to the next station.

"That was it?" Layla asked. "I'd never seen a drum relay before."

"That was it for Fort's message," Ransom said. Exhilaration swept through his body, chasing the echoes of the drums' reverberations. He stepped around the drums to face west. "Now for Crom's."

Crom's message took less time to deliver. The relay station was just a few leagues away at the base of the mountains. They no doubt had already heard Fort's message, so it was just a few minutes before the relay pounded out the message to send it on to Crom.

"Why Crom?" Gabrien asked when Ransom was done and the last rumbles of the massive drumheads had faded to silence. He helped the harper apprentice drag the heavy wherhide covers over the drums.

"Aegellan wanted to send for Lord Daxel and bring him home," Ransom replied. His arms suddenly felt limp as boiled greens. He had never played such huge drums before. The vibrations that shot up his arms each time he hit the drumhead were stronger than he expected.

Gabrien stopped with his arms stretched out around the rim of the drum. He let out a long, low whistle. "So Lord Daxel's comin' back here? I thought we were long quit of that hothead. Bloodline he may be, but that one is…" he exhaled in a whoosh of breath.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ransom asked, stowing the sticks in their oilskin envelope.

Gabrien stepped down off the platform and twitched the bottom of the wherhide into place. "I don't know all the details, but Lord Daxel weren't sent to Crom for fosterin' in the usual sense. You know, create good relationships between Holds an' prevent inbreedin' an' all that."

Ransom bristled, his face heating. He hopped down onto the fire heights. "So? What's wrong with that?"

"It seems Haligon wanted him out o' the way. Make room so he could groom Aegellan for the succession."

"But isn't Daxel his son?"

Gabrien nodded, adjusting his saber belt and leaning back against one of the stone crenellations. "He is. But Haligon's the second son himself. His brother, Aegellan's father, was Lord Holder before 'im. But he died when Aegellan was just a pup, so Haligon stepped in. Now, Haligon intends to hand back the succession to his older brother's son. Daxel weren't too giddy when Haligon's intentions became clear a few Turns back. He got up in some mischief, so Haligon sent 'im off." Gabrien leaned to the side and spat through the gap between the battlements. Turning back around, he caught sight of Layla with Roe on the other side of the heights. He winced guiltily. "Oh, I forgot there was a lady around."

"I doubt she noticed," Ransom reassured him. "And if she did, she probably doesn't care."

Gabrien sighed in relief. "Good. You never know sometimes, with girls. Anyways, I hope it's been long enough for Daxel to cool his heels off. It's bad enough havin' the Lord Holder fall ill without all that other strife over the succession." He straightened his uniform. "By the way, those apprentices been botherin' you at all?

"We've kept ourselves out of any scullery drains," Ransom said.

"That was a nasty trick that was. Well," he jerked his head in Layla's direction, "I should get back to my post. You know, guard the Hold an' all that."

"Right. Thanks for all your help, Gabrien."

The guard's gap-toothed smile flashed in the darkness. "It's no problem, Ransom. Just doin' my job."

Roe looked up from the slate at their approach. A torch flickered behind him, throwing his face into darkness. He angled himself so the light fell across his chest and signed, _I felt your drumming. _He patted his chest. _In here._

_Me too,_ Ransom replied. _Those drums are so powerful._

_I can see why you love it._ The torchlight skimmed Roe's profile as he turned his head. For an instant, a longing half-smile was illuminated on his face. He held out Ransom's wrapped pipe, forgotten in the rush to begin the drum relay.

_Thanks, Roe._ Ransom took the instrument. He was grateful that Roe had kept track of it.

_I like those drums more than your pipe,_ Roe signed. _Much more interesting. It's too bad you can't play them more often._

"Oh!" Gabrien snapped his blunt fingers at the sight of the pipe. "Now, harper, I know you just finished drummin' a mad bit, but d'ye think you could play somethin' more harmonious? My ears are itchin' for a good tune. It'd be a good way to start up my watch again."

"Of course!" Layla replied before Ransom could. "We didn't get to perform tonight for the evening music. Don't want you to get rusty, harper apprentice," she said with a smirk.

"It'd take much more than a single night's lapse for me to get rusty, weaver apprentice," Ransom shot back. He slipped the pipe from its protective sleeve and positioned his fingers over the stops. "What do you want to hear, Gabrien?" he asked.

"D'ye know that jig about the three-legged runner?" The guard's ugly face was softened by a hopeful smile.

Ransom answered by playing a few lively opening bars. He struck a few sour notes, but his fingers soon recalled the tune and he played strong and sure.

"I know that tune!" Layla said. "But it's not about a runner, it's a weaver man and his wife." Nodding to the beat, she launched into the melody with her sweet soprano.

To Ransom's surprise, Gabrien joined in with a pleasant baritone. His voice was a little gruff and his phrasing lacked artistry, but he had a fairly good ear and stayed in key. He sang a different set of lyrics than Layla's. Their voices jumbled together comically and the song ended in a bout of laughter.

"Ah, well done, Ransom," Gabrien said, clapping enthusiastically. "Many thanks. An' the same to you, me lady." He bowed to Layla with a wide grin. It was hard to tell in the torchlight, but it looked like she blushed.

"You're not so bad yourself," she said.

Gabrien looked pleased. "Me ma loved to sing. She taught me'n my brothers when we were young."

A sharp, staccato cadence cut through their merriment, beating out the Fort relay code. Ransom sat up straight to listen. The others fell silent.

"Sounds like Fort's drummin' a message back," Gabrien said. He pointed a thumb at the still burning signal fire. "Guess it's a good thing we didn't put that out."

Ransom tucked his pipe into the back of his trousers waistband with a sigh. "Yes, but we covered the drums." He hopped back up onto the platform as the Fort relay repeated for the third time. Roe followed and helped him drag the hide covers off again. The relay station began a new message. Ransom listened with his eye closed as he deciphered the syncopated rhythms. His shoulders slumped.

"What is it?" Layla asked. "What did they say?"

Ransom stayed silent as the message repeated twice more.

Roe nudged him with his elbow. _What was the message? _he asked.

"The Masterharper is coming with Dared and the Masterhealer," Ransom muttered, signing for Roe's benefit.

"You sound less than excited about that," Layla observed.

"The Masterharper, here?" Gabrien whistled through the gap in his teeth. "Is that good news or bad news for you, harper apprentice?"

"The Masterharper is his father," Layla said. "And Roe's too."

"Is that right?" Gabrien's eyebrows rose. He clapped Roe on the shoulder. "You boys must be happy to see 'im."

"Yes," Ransom replied tonelessly. "Really happy." He gripped his drumsticks and struck the beginning of the receiving signal.


	7. Chapter 7

Three dragons burst into the sky above Ruatha two days later. The crisp morning air vibrated with the beat of massive dragonwings. They were nine short of a full wing, but it was more dragons than Ruatha had seen for over half a Turn. Glistening wings and powerful muscles seemed to fill the valley as two browns, and a bronze touched down in sequence on the road below the Hold. Aegellan, flanked by Hold guards for ceremony, stood at the head of a crowd of hold folk who had taken a reprieve from their daily duties to stand in awe of the majestic beasts. The young lord strode forward in welcome as the dragons hunkered down on their forelimbs to deposit their passengers.

Attempting to touch Wolith's brown hide as little as possible, Dared fairly leaped down from his seat behind Moregan. Loose bits of gravel crunched under his wooden leg as he landed unsteadily. It wasn't the smoothest dismount, but grace wasn't his main concern. He strode as far from the dragon as courtesy would permit, fighting the feeling that he was drowning on dry land.

Behind him, Moregan laughed and said something unintelligible in a resonant baritone to A'zar, Wolith's rider. Dared could barely hear them over the blood roaring in his ears. He filled his resisting lungs, trying to compose himself.

A hand on his shoulder nearly made him jump out of his skin.

"Dared?" The Masterharper arched an eyebrow at him.

Dared stifled an expletive with a sheepish chuckle. "Forgive me, Moregan. Flying a-dragonback wreaks havoc on my nerves." Moregan was fair-skinned and strong-featured, his hair and short beard still jet black with no hint of grey. For a moment, Dared could recognize hints of Ransom in his old friend's face.

"Nothing a good cup of klah won't sort out." Moregan replied in an undertone. "Thank you, A'zar," he said to the brownrider. "I am forever indebted to Benden for lending your wingstrength to tote us Craft- and Hold folk around the continent."

"It serves the Weyr's purposes as well," A'zar replied with a lopsided smile. A crescent-shaped scar pulled down the left corner of his mouth. "Our presence ensures that dragonkind is not forgotten."

"Are Pernese so forgetful? I find that dragons and their riders are a memorable breed," the Masterhealer Johannon put in. He was a thin, brown man with high cheekbones beneath expressive black eyes that seemed to linger momentarily on Dared.

"Memorable, yes, but rather rarer these days," A'zar said, his mood sobering.

He was followed by Jo'el, the rider of bronze Tigrith. The knots on the dragon man's jacket labeled him a wingleader. A third dragonrider and his passenger, Haligon's first son Daxel, also joined the group of men. The young lord shared his father's hawkish features, but his sharp grey eyes glinted with calculation instead of humor. He carried himself with a feline's lazy grace, his shoulders relaxed in a seemingly indolent slouch. In his three Turns at Crom, he had grown more confident and controlled. Dared wondered how deep the apparent changes ran.

"Welcome to Ruatha," Aegellan said with a small bow. "Masterhealer, Masterharper, Wingleader, riders," he nodded to each man in turn, "we are honored to have you here. Lord Daxel, welcome home."

"It's good to be back, cousin." Daxel's voice carried a hint of a slur that was just barely noticeable, but not enough to cause offense.

"My condolences, Lord Aegellan," Moregan said. "Your uncle is a strong man."

Aegellan bowed his head. "Thank you, Masterharper. Wingleader, you and your men are most welcome at the Hold. Will you stay to sup with us?"

Jo'el saluted, the two brownriders standing at attention behind him. "The Benden Weyrleaders send their regards. Thank you for your hospitality. Our dragons will stay in the hills."

Dared stared at his dusty boots. He felt as if a brood of tunnelsnakes were gnawing their way through his innards and tightening their sinuous bodies around his lungs. Quite the colorful description, he told himself dryly. Miyra would have told him to stop being dramatic. He wished the midwife were there. At least she would appreciate it if he gave in to the hysterical urge to drop an inappropriate joke.

A man cleared his throat behind Dared. He turned to see the third dragonrider smiling hesitantly at him. He was a young man who looked oddly familiar.

"Weyrsinger."

Dared started in recognition. "Nethoniel? Forgive me, I don't know your honorific."

The young rider nodded and grinned happily. "Not to worry. It's N'thon. I'm surprised you remember me."

The memory of a scrawny, tree of a boy at the back of his classroom flashed into Dared's mind. "You're a rider now," he said, suddenly feeling ancient. "But you were at Fort."

N'thon's smile faded. "I was transferred to Benden two Turns ago."

Dared nodded and a silent understanding passed between the two men. They both had been left behind. "I'm glad to see you again," Dared said truthfully.

N'thon shook Dared's hand to end the conversation. Neither was in the mood to reminisce.

The dragonriders and their passengers followed Aegellan and his guard up the hill, hold folk dispersing to their normal tasks. N'thon fell in behind Jo'el. Dared kept his distance from the other dragonriders as well as he could without being rude. He could sense their pitying glances, their uneasy reserve in the presence of a dragonless man. Wooden leg clunking, he drew abreast with Moregan.

"Your boys are settling in well," Dared commented.

"Hmm?" Moregan absently pulled on his beard as he emerged from a reverie. "Oh, yes, the boys. Thank you for taking them. I'm glad they have you."

"They're good kids."

"I can't take any credit," Moregan replied. His light tone was at odds with the frown creasing his forehead. "Kesandra is a wonderful mother."

"So she is," Dared repeated quietly. They stepped into the main hall where light refreshments awaited them. Only Johannon, Daxel, and Aegellan continued up the stairs to Haligon's chamber. The dragonriders and harpers remained in the lower hall. Moregan pulled Dared aside once the servers had laid out wines and sweetmeats. They excused themselves from the riders, taking a seat at a separate table. Dared groaned as his knees sent complaints up his legs at the exertion.

"Have you looked at that new score I sent you?" Moregan asked.

"The unsettling one? Yes, I have." He hadn't played it all the way through, but he had looked it over. The discordant tune was disturbing, and the words did little to help. The song did nothing but reiterate questions that Dared himself had already asked over and over again.

"I'll debut it in the Spring Festival."

"Moregan, it's hardly a performance piece."

"No, but Pern needs to hear it. Once it gets into circulation, I'll have it canonized as a Teaching song. We can't forget the Weyrs' disappearance."

As if the monolithic Weyrs sitting empty around the continent weren't enough of a reminder.

"It'll be a solo at the Festival," Moregan continued.

"You should follow it up with something bright. It wouldn't do to leave everyone on such an uneasy note."

"Speaking of uneasy notes," Moregan said in an undertone, "have you made much progress with the northern Holds?" He watched Dared from over the rim of his wineglass.

"Winter is a difficult time to bring up the subject of tithes, especially in snowbound High Reaches," Dared answered wearily.

"Is it only the scarcity of foodstuffs that sets the northern Lords in opposition to the alliance?"

Dared rubbed his eyes. "They still question Benden's influence spreading this far west. It's not tradition, they say. Why should they be indebted to Benden, who has never fought Thread in their skies? Benden Weyr has only ever served the northeast."

"The sky above Benden is the same as that over High Reaches. Thread was our common enemy throughout Pern. So too, the Weyrs are our common protectors. Now that we have only one, it is paramount that we stand united."

"So I have told them."

"And still they resist." Moregan let out a resigned breath.

"There must be something about the mountain air," Dared grumbled. "It's too thin to support logical cognition."

Moregan laughed and clapped Dared's shoulder. "I hope your cognition isn't affected from all the times I sent you up there. I can't afford to lose one of my best harpers." His expression grew serious. "Take care of yourself, Dared. You look terrible."

"Spoken like a true friend," Dared said with a laugh. "Artless, but honest."

"A man can't always gild his words. Not even a Masterharper." He filled a glass of wine for Dared, who placed it on the table untouched. "I nearly sent the boys to Nerat. What with all your journeying, I didn't want you to be overburdened by their presence."

"I'm glad to foster them," Dared said firmly. "Ransom and Roe are no burden."

Moregan set his elbows on the tabletop and rested his chin in his hands. For a moment, his air of invulnerability crumbled and he looked bone-weary. "I am glad for that," he breathed.

"You should be proud of them. You will see them while you're here, won't you?" Dared asked.

"Yes," Moregan said after a short pause. "Of course." He began to fill another wineglass before he realized what he was doing. Remembering the full glass by Dared's elbow, he let out a self-effacing chuckle. "I forget that you don't drink anymore. It's strange to drink by myself."

Dared shrugged. "I don't mind pretending, if only to keep you company." He lifted his glass in a mock toast. "To the thin air and thick skulls at High Reaches."

With a musical clink, Moregan returned the gesture. "Well said, harper. Words of pure gold." He tossed back the half-filled wineglass.

"They should be free by seventeen hours," Dared said, setting down his full glass.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your boys. I doubt Haligon will have the strength for an audience this evening, so you'll be free to see Ransom and Roe instead."

"Oh, yes. My boys." The skin around Moregan's eyes tightened in a half-smile. "So. The lords Haligon, Daxel, and Aegellan all in one room. What do you wager will be the outcome?"

Dared massaged his bad knee absently. "Whatever happens will be for the good and glory of Ruatha." He smiled grimly. "So we hope."

Moregan leaned forward. "I'll wager two marks Aegellan plugs one to Daxel's smug mug within a day," he whispered with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes.

Dared raised his eyebrows as far as his scars would permit and grinned. "Make it three and you have yourself a bet."

"Done." The two men shook hands solemnly over the table, to all appearances just a harper and his superior discussing serious matters of their Craft.

* * *

Upstairs, only the Masterhealer's presence kept fists at sides and false smiles plastered in place. As the Craftmaster and the two Ruathan lordlings approached the Lord Holder's chambers, Aegellan could hear Nedaxa's voice echoing stridently down the corridor. He swore under his breath. It meant Haligon was conscious, but the lord holder hadn't energy to waste in provoking his lady.

"Home, sweet home," Daxel said acidly behind him.

Aegellan ignored the comment. He quickened his stride and flung the door to Haligon's chamber open.

"—love your dead brother's son more than your own!" Lady Nedaxa was hissing, tears streaking down her lined face. She stopped short at her nephew's entrance.

"My lord, my lady," Aegellan said. "The Masterhealer has arrived." Aegellan waited in the doorway for Nedaxa to collect herself. She straightened up and smoothed her grey hair quickly, shooting a last cold stare at her supine husband.

Haligon twitched a bony hand weakly from the wide bed. "Aegellan … told you … not to … fuss over me," he slurred haltingly. Aegellan's gut tightened to see his uncle's normally proud figure laid low, reduced to a frail shell that seemed barely to make a bump under the sleeping furs. Haligon's skin was pale, nearly transparent, sagging over the prominent bones of his face. His mouth drooped to one side, letting a thin stream of spittle spill over his jaw.

"On the contrary, my lord," Johannon said, stepping into the chamber with his hands behind his back. "No effort should be spared to help you. Do you think we would just let the father of Fort's late Weyrwoman die?"

"Not … dead yet," Haligon muttered, twisting one finger in the bedsheets beneath his chin.

"Good." Johannon smiled gently. "I'd like to keep you that way. If I may?" He stepped forward to Haligon's bedside to begin his evaluation.

"Really father," Daxel said, casually brushing past Aegellan as he followed Johannon in, "do you want so badly to abandon us all before your time? Mother," he said to Nedaxa. She held her arms out to him and he stepped into her embrace.

"Welcome home, my son," the lady murmured, her composure slipping to let a few tears fall.

Aegellan looked away, methodically keeping his emotions in check. He was used to suppressing his feelings, but it was rarely easy. He shut the door and took his post in the corner of the chamber, hands folded behind his back. Once again, he was alone. Not even Haligon could champion him this time.

After a moment, Daxel pulled away from his mother and bowed formally to Haligon. "Father," he said. "May you have strength and honor."

A rasping gurgle that hardly passed for a laugh escaped Haligon's lips. "Kissing … up now … son? I fall … ill … so you … smell succession … in the … air."

Daxel paled, but his back remained straight and his hands loose at his sides. Aegellan unconsciously sucked in his breath. It was the closest he had ever seen his cousin come to showing shame.

"My lord!" Nedaxa exclaimed, clutching Daxel's arm protectively. Her wide eyes flicked to the Masterhealer bending over the bed.

"I have … nothing to hide … from Johannon."

The Masterhealer continued his examination calmly. He placed two fingers on Haligon's thin wrist to measure his pulse. "My lord, try not to speak. You must save your strength."

"Yes," Nedaxa pressed. "We will discuss these things later, when you are stronger."

Haligon laughed again, the gurgle turning into a hoarse, hacking cough. He moved his finger in a slow, halting spiral. "Like … carrion birds … circling."

Haligon's words bounced off the smooth surface of his son's armor, back in place after a brief lapse. "Carrion birds, father?" Daxel said with a laugh. "Surely your own Bloodline deserves a nobler comparison. Firelizards, perhaps? I don't think I presume too much by ascribing to the kin of Pern's great dragons. After all, my own dear sister was Weyrwoman."

"How Blood … can thin … in one … generation." Haligon's words were barely audible, but they fell like the boom of a signal drum in the quiet chamber. Aegellan flinched.

The Lord Holder had aimed well. His missile broke through a chink in Daxel's façade and struck vulnerable flesh underneath. The young lord's handsome face twisted.

"My lord!" Nedaxa protested.

Even the Masterhealer lost his composure for a moment, a discomfited expression creasing his forehead.

"My lord, you are ill. I'm afraid you will become overwrought," Aegellan said, stepping forward from his corner. "Cousin, will you accompany me downstairs for refreshment? We can continue this interview when the Masterhealer has finished his examination and the Lord Holder has had time to rest."

Nedaxa nodded and silently urged her son to obey, for once agreeing with her nephew without hesitation. Daxel ignored her. His gaze was locked with his father's steely grey eyes.

Aegellan walked to the door and pulled it open so it would creak audibly against the stone floor. The sound jolted Daxel from the tense standoff. He looked at Aegellan, eyes narrowing in calculation. It was a familiar expression. Just like the good old days, Aegellan thought. After three Turns apart, they could still pick up right where they left off.

"Thank you, cousin," Daxel said in a deceptively soft voice. "I accept your kind invitation." He turned to Nedaxa and the lord's bed, bowing to each in turn. "Mother. Masterhealer. Father." He lingered in the last bow, bending so deeply it hinted at mockery. Straightening without show or flourish, he stalked from the room. Aegellan took his leave and shut the door quietly. He turned around to find himself toe to toe with his cousin. Three Turns ago, Aegellan had barely come up to Daxel's chin. Now he could look him in the eye.

"Very good, young Aegellan," Daxel said, his mouth curving in a humorless smile. His eyes glittered coldly. "Showcase your diplomacy with the Masterhealer as a witness." He brought his hands together in slow applause and stepped backwards. "You've gotten better at playing this game since I left."

"I don't play games," Aegellan replied.

"No?" Daxel's eyes widened in mock innocence. "How else could you have so neatly usurped my position and my father's affection in the short time I was gone?" His stare turned frigid. "It seems I've finally returned to a worthy opponent."

"I'm not your enemy, Daxel," Aegellan said, hiding his trepidation behind a blank face. He was glad Daxel couldn't hear his heart pounding, or feel the sweat moistening his palms. "We're of the same Bloodline."

"Ah, but that's exactly the point. One Bloodline. One Lord Holder." He gripped Aegellan's shoulder in a show of false affection. "You're a man now, young Aegellan. I won't have to soften my blows." He turned down the hallway, his arms swinging with the entitled stride of a lord.

Aegellan mentally recited the Ruathan Bloodline for a few moments until his breathing slowed and he was perfectly calm. He straightened his shoulders and followed his cousin down to the main hall.


	8. Chapter 8

Ransom fell in step with a group of woodsmith apprentices heading downhill from the Hold. He slouched with his hands in his pockets, his neck and chest prickly with frustration. He was supposed to be practicing in the classroom for the duration of afternoon sectionals. Normally, he loved losing himself in the music as he rehearsed. Today, however, each instrument he picked up had seemed to fight him. He even flubbed basic scales. After an hour, he had given up and left.

The woodsmith boys around him were in high spirits, laughing and reenacting some story.

"Did you see the size of that bronze dragon?"

"See it? I was just a stones' throw away!"

"Yes, you've been saying so all morning."

"The dragons are still in the hills, just behind the Hold. I saw their riders in the main hall."

Ransom grimaced and veered away from them. He didn't want to hear about the dragons and their riders. Or their passengers.

He stopped on the path to the Crafthall, wishing his brother would get out early from Brenthon's tutorial. The yard was empty, all the apprentices dispersed to their various chores and tutorials. Ransom turned and cut across the path toward the hills. He should have stayed in the classroom and practiced longer, but he didn't fancy being in the Hold with the Masterharper there. He didn't want to see his father unless he had to.

The grass gave way to slate as the hills began. A chill wind picked up, cutting through his shirt and tunic. Ransom hunched his shoulders close to his ears and kept climbing.

Even as a child when Thread had threatened, he had enjoyed wandering. The cool air of the woods, the buzz of crawlers in the underbrush, the exertion of clambering over tree roots worked like balm to loosen his tangled thoughts. Kesandra nearly pulled her hair out on several occasions trying to track him down. He remembered one time when he had walked three leagues into the woods behind the Harper Hall to think. A territorial wherry had come crashing through the bushes and Ransom had sprinted for the nearest tree. Kesandra tanned his hide when he finally made it home, hours after sunset.

Kesandra loved him, he had no doubt of that. He loved Kesandra as well, even more so when he grew old enough to know what 'bastard' meant. She had raised him as her own, bandaging his injuries after he got in some scrape, attacking his unruly hair with a comb, and rubbing his back when he cried from disappointment because his father had not appeared to hear him sing. He knew she loved him, but not as much as she loved Roe. As even-handed as Kesandra had been with her boys, Ransom knew Roe was closer to her heart. As he grew, he understood and couldn't fault her for it.

He remembered watching from the doorway as a small child, seeing Kesandra hold Roe close and speak aloud with her lips pressed to his forehead. She held her son's hands to her throat and sang to him over and over, letting him go when he grew restless and wanted to play. Ransom had climbed into her lap once and reached for her throat with his little hands like Roe had done so many times. He hadn't understood then why instead of singing, she had cried.

He had never asked Kesandra about his mother. When he was young, he had believed that Kesandra was his mother. By the time he learned the truth, he knew better than to ask. Dared had known his mother, but the Harper was oddly reticent. Ransom broached the topic only to get a vague reply and abrupt change of subject.

Ransom paused at the crest of a hill to catch his breath. Before him, the ground dropped off into a sheer precipice. The valley spread out below him, tinged with gold from the afternoon sun. Above him the hills continued to rise, sloping gently into the foot of the mountain pass to Crom. He turned to face the south, shading his eyes to look down the mountain range where the Harper Hall and Fort Weyr stood out of sight. Even farther away was Southern Boll, at the edge of the sea. The world stretched out beneath his feet, reaching beyond his vision, memory, and imagination. He was nothing but a tiny speck on the map of Pern.

A shadow fell over him. He looked up, expecting to see a fast-moving cloud. Instead, a faceted blue eye as long as his arm looked down at him. A bronze dragon's head and long, sinuous neck rose above the edge of the cliff. He yelled and jumped back. The loose shale slid out from beneath his feet. He landed hard on his rear and rolled backwards, coming to a bumping halt halfway down the hill. The dragon let out a whuff of warm air and planted a fearsome foot on the edge of the precipice. Sharp talons crushed the shale. Powerful muscles flexed and rolled beneath glistening hide as the dragon pulled itself up onto the hill where Ransom had been standing moments before.

He stared, transfixed, at the monolith of dragonflesh towering over him. The bronze stretched out its wings, throwing Ransom into shadow once more. He scrabbled backwards, trying to avoid its pinions. With a contented bass rumble, the dragon folded its wings against its back and settled down onto its haunches, like a feline curling up in the sun. A thin, white lid slid over its eye.

Ransom let out a choked laugh of disbelief. He stood slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves. He felt as if he took a wrong step, he would wake on his hard cot, the dream dissipating like smoke on the wind.

"I can't believe it!" he whispered. A real bronze dragon right there, before his eyes. He could reach out and touch it if he wanted.

Like every boy on Pern, Ransom had entertained daydreams of being a dragonrider. He saw the Fort riders often enough, watched them make their lazy loops into the Weyr. He had never ridden a dragon, but plenty of harpers did. When he was still in the Harper Hall, he expected to be flown out on assignment once he made journeyman. Now, he wondered if he still had a chance of advancing in the harper craft.

The dragon's white lid opened briefly, revealing a slowly whirling eye. It regarded Ransom curiously, as if wondering why he was still there.

Ransom backed down the hill, unable to tear his eyes from the magnificent bronze. Intuition told him he shouldn't stay, but he wanted to feast his eyes as long as he could. When the curve of the hill finally blocked the dragon from sight, Ransom turned and broke into a run. The wind snatched his breathless laughter from his mouth before it reached his ears. He stopped when the hills sank into grassy pasture. He leaned over to catch his breath and looked back. The dragon was gone. Ransom grinned, tucking the memory away. It glowed at the edge of his mind, chasing away unhappy thoughts and leaving calm content in their place.

The afternoon sectionals were just letting out when Ransom made it back to the Crafthall. He went on the lookout for Roe, eager to share his experience. He had almost been stepped on by a bronze dragon. None of the woodsmith boys' boasting could compare.

To avoid running into Petrand and his cronies, Ransom looped around the back of the Crafthall, hiking the ridge behind the storerooms to wait. Brenthon had a very weak sensation of the passage of time. Roe's tutorials always went late.

He neared the top of the ridge when he heard the voices. He stopped. Petrand he could pick out immediately, followed by Sammal and Nils. He let out his breath at the close call. At least now he knew where they were so he could avoid them. He started back down the hill when he heard another voice that made his blood go cold.

"Stop," Roe said. "Please stop." Ransom hadn't heard his brother speak for Turns, but his voice was unmistakable.

"Oh, it can talk. Or, at least it tries to."

Laughter rose from the base of the hill, followed by cruel imitations of Roe's accent.

Head pounding with dread, Ransom hurried to the top of the ridge, crouching in the grass to avoid being seen. It was a steep, ten foot slope to the courtyard below where four boys stood. Sammal and Nils held Roe between them, twisting one of his arms behind his back. Petrand stood in front of them, fists ready.

"Thinks he's better than us, doesn't he? He's just so talented and so special."

"Crawler upstart," Sammal sneered, wrenching Roe's arm.

"Stop," Roe said again. His face was pale and twisted in pain.

"Don't worry," Petrand said sweetly. "I won't hurt your pretty face." He stepped forward and drove his fist into Roe's stomach. Roe gasped a silent cry of pain and doubled over. Sammal and Nils roughly forced him back upright.

"You wish you weren't so special now, don't you, you deaf bastard!"

With a furious shout, Ransom flung himself over the top of the ridge, sliding down the steep face. He barreled into Petrand from behind, sending the weaver boy sprawling. The boys holding Roe yelled in surprise. Ransom staggered upright and flung himself on Petrand, battering him with his fists.

"Don't…you…ever…hit…my brother…again!" he shouted.

Petrand shoved his hand into Ransom's face, fingers searching for his eyes. He managed to get his other hand around Ransom's throat. They rolled, kicking and struggling. Petrand caught three of Ransom's fingers and yanked them backwards with a series of sickening cracks. Ransom howled as pain shot through his wrist and the back of his hand. Petrand took advantage of the distraction, pinning Ransom to the ground with both hands around his neck.

"Thought you'd come back for more, eh?" Petrand said, flashing bloodied teeth in an ugly grimace. "I'll finish what I started with you, then I'll break your brother."

Ransom kicked fruitlessly, trying to break the other boy's stranglehold. His fingers throbbed, shooting fresh jolts of pain up his arm when he tried to move them. His head throbbed and he gasped for air.

"What's the matter? You go dumb like your precious brother?" Petrand's eyes glinted in malice. He meant to kill him. Ransom fought harder, digging his good fingers into the other boy's wrists.

Roe rammed his shoulder into Petrand's side, sending the bully into the dirt. Ransom dragged searing breaths into his lungs. His head still whirling, he staggered upright, favoring his left hand. Sammal and Nils were pulling his brother off of Petrand, their faces showing the evidence of Roe's fists. Ransom leaped on Sammal and punched him in the kidney. Sammal dropped Roe with a yelp. A hand grabbed the back of Ransom's collar and yanked him backward. He managed to keep his balance and break away from its grip.

Petrand faced him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "You got some nerve," he said. "This time we'll get rid of you and your bastard brother for good."

"I'm the bastard, you idiot. Get your facts straight," Ransom shot back, ready with his weight balanced on his toes. His middle three fingers on his injured hand stuck out at awkward angles. He couldn't afford to fight fair anymore. This had to end.

Petrand lunged at him, arms wide to try and trap him again. Ransom sidestepped a wild punch and threw his weight forward to drive his forearm into Petrand's throat. The weaver apprentice's head jerked back, his spine arching as the rest of his body continued forward. Ransom brought his knee up into his groin. Petrand dropped like a boneless sack, his head hitting the ground with a muffled thud. His eyes rolled back and a horrible, gurgling rasp came from his mouth.

"Shells! You've bloody killed him!" Sammal howled. Nils froze in the middle of a tussle with Roe, his fist cocked, his other hand gripping Roe's collar.

Petrand's eyes fluttered shut and a crimson trickle ran from the corner of his mouth. Ransom was frozen where he stood. His heart pounded like the massive signal drums.

"What's going on here!" A journeyman in yellow appeared around the corner. He stalked towards them, eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. Petrand lay crumpled on the ground. The other boys' chests heaved, their faces bloodied, their dirt-stained tunics askew.

"Explain yourselves!" the journeyman snapped, eyes flashing.

"He jumped Petrand, Journeyman Denmar," Sammal said quickly, flinging his arm out at Ransom. "Nils and I heard the commotion and came running to help."

"That's a lie!" Ransom shouted. He stepped towards Sammal with one fist clenched.

"Hold it right there!" The journeyman seized Ransom by the arm and yanked him back. "Make another move and you'll regret it for a Turn."

Ransom clenched his teeth and wished Sammal a dozen oozing ailments.

"We'll get to the bottom of this." Denmar pushed Ransom aside and knelt by Petrand. He checked the boy's wrist and lifted one of his eyelids. Petrand didn't respond. Ransom's stomach twisted in a moment of horror. He had never hurt anyone like that before.

"Is he dead?" Nils squeaked.

"He's alive, just unconscious." Denmar said and Ransom could breathe again. The journeyman stood, his face stony. "Nils, run to the Hold for a healer. You,"—he pointed to Roe—"stay here and watch Petrand until they come. Don't think this means either of you is out of trouble. I'll deal with you later. As for you two,"—he frowned at Ransom and Sammal—"you're coming with me now."

Sammal opened his mouth to protest but Denmar silenced him with a sharp look. The journeyman seized both boys and marched them around to the front of the Crafthall. Ransom's left hand throbbed painfully as they walked. He glanced down at it and immediately regretted it as queasiness twisted his stomach.

They rounded the corner of the Crafthall and Ransom's innards knotted themselves completely.

Brenthon was crossing the yard with two men in harper blue. One of them was Dared. The other was the Masterharper.

Ransom tripped at the sight of the harpers, only the journeyman's viselike grip on his arm keeping him upright. Moregan looked the same as always, broad-shouldered, straight-backed, and dashing in his blue tunic with a Craftmaster's badge pinned to his shoulder. Ransom tried to hide behind the journeyman, but it was too late. His father's face darkened as he saw them approach and he looked quickly away.

"Denmar," Brenthon said gruffly, his bushy eyebrows lowering. "What is the meaning of this?

"These boys were brawling behind the storerooms," the journeyman replied. "Forgive me, Brenthon. I don't mean to interrupt."

"A most unfortunate interruption indeed," Brenthon muttered, his beady eyes flicking between the two boys.

Ransom's face burned under the scrutiny of the older men. Dared stared at them in dismay, his lips parted as if he meant to speak but couldn't summon the words. Moregan's eyes were still averted, his gaze pointing towards the hills in the east. His jaw tightened and a muscle shifted in his temple.

_It's not what it looks like!_ Ransom wanted to shout out. _It was self defense, I swear!_ Only his last shreds of good sense kept him quiet.

"Harper Dared?" Brenthon asked. "I believe one of these boys is under your mentorship. How would you like to deal with him?"

Disappointment was written clearly across Dared's face. Ransom swallowed hard against the nauseating shame souring the back of his throat. He stared at his toes. The world began to swim as tears brimmed in his eyes.

"Denmar witnessed what happened," Dared said. "I trust his judgment."

"Very well. I will leave you to deal with them, Denmar," Brenthon rumbled. "We will retire to the Hold to continue our discourse. Masterharper, Dared." He motioned to the harpers to lead the way. Dared gave a last pained glance over his shoulder before limping toward the Hold. Moregan followed without looking back.

The journeyman marched the boys to the front of the Crafthall and sat them down on a hard bench. A small crowd of whispering apprentices gathered around the periphery of the yard. Ransom stared at his broken fingers without really seeing them. He was finished at Ruatha. Even if he proved that the fight wasn't his fault, he wouldn't be allowed to stay. He had disgraced his craft and injured another boy. His heart hammered, every beat driving barbs of shame into his insides. The small part of his mind that was clear wondered with detached curiosity where he would be sent next.

"You first, harper apprentice." Denmar's voice broke through Ransom's thoughts. The journeyman stood over him with his arms crossed. "Need I remind you of your craft's duty to the truth?"

Ransom shook his head mutely.

"Good. Now, explain yourself."

Ransom took a few heartbeats to gather his wits. From past experience, he knew throwing dramatic accusations and playing up the details of the story would only work against him. Denmar's cold expression brooked no nonsense. Ransom kept his voice low and told only the simple facts. "Petrand, Sammal and Nils were bullying Roe. They had him cornered and were hitting him while he was defenseless. I heard them from the ridge and jumped down to stop them. My brother and I were fighting in self defense."

Denmar raised an eyebrow. "Sammal said you jumped Petrand." The weaver boy flushed red.

Ransom looked Denmar in the eye, careful not to make his gaze seem insolent. "Petrand was the one hitting my brother, so yes, I targeted him first. But I did not attack him unprovoked."

"He hit your brother, so that gave you license to knock him out cold?" Denmar asked harshly. "Roe was still standing when I saw him last. I can't say the same for Petrand."

"I can't say that three on one is very fair either," Ransom said, an edge of anger creeping into his voice.

Denmar regarded him with cold eyes for a long moment before continuing. "Is what Ransom said true, Sammal?" he demanded, turning to the weaver apprentice. "Lie and I'll have you out of the Crafthall on your backside."

Sammal gulped, his eyes darting around desperately.

"Let me make this simpler for you. Were you, Nils, and Petrand bullying Roe?"

"We weren't going to hurt him," Sammal began.

Ransom made a disgusted noise.

"Do not interrupt again, harper apprentice," Denmar snapped. "Let me rephrase, Sammal. Was Petrand hitting Roe?"

Sammal nodded.

"Did you try to stop Petrand?"

Sammal started to nod, then froze and slowly shook his head.

"Were you helping Petrand hit Roe?"

The boy's face drooped miserably under his superior's scrutiny. He nodded again.

"Would you like to say anything else? No? Very well."

Nils came running into the yard, followed by a healer and assistant. He ducked his head at the sight of Ransom and Sammal being questioned and directed the healer around to the back of the Crafthall.

Denmar's face was grim as he straightened up. "I've heard enough. Both of you, report back to the Hall after the evening meal. You're dismissed." His eyes dropped to Ransom's hands. "Get that hand looked at, harper apprentice." Denmar turned around and the gathered apprentices dispersed to the murmur of juicy gossip being exchanged. Sammal slunk away, his head down in defeat.

The healer and his assistant emerged from behind the corner of the Crafthall, half-carrying, half-supporting Petrand between them. Denmar strode over to meet them. Ransom felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Petrand's face, so often twisted in an arrogant sneer, was slack and lifeless. His head lolled and his feet stumbled drunkenly over each other.

At that, Ransom left, his feet eating up the path to Hold. His mind whirled in panic, moving too fast to string together coherent thoughts. So many things were falling apart. Dared. His father. Petrand. His fingers. His fingers—they were the one problem he was able to fix. He turned down a fork to the hillside cotholds. Miyra and Barrak kept a small cottage behind the smithy. The midwife worked at the Hold three days out of seven, but with her advanced pregnancy she was spending more time at home. Ransom knocked at their door and waited, breathing shallowly to save his ribs as they felt the aftereffects of Petrand's fists.

Miyra opened the door, her face bright. "Ransom! What a pleasant surprise—oh." Her smile faded as she took in his appearance. "You poor dear."

"I'm sorry to bother you, Miyra," he began.

"No, no, don't be silly. Come in and I'll get you patched up." She opened the door wide and pulled him inside. The cottage was small and the furnishings were well used, but it suited Miyra and Barrak. An unfamiliar emotion settled in Ransom's chest as he stood on the threshold. It took a moment of breathing the herb-scented air before he realized what it was. He felt safe. Maybe it had to do with the sunlight pouring in through the west-facing windows, or the cracked wood of the kitchen table, crafted and repaired by skilled hands. The sensation of being home washed over him and he looked over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Kesandra emerge with her healing supplies and a dry tongue-lashing.

Instead, Miyra beckoned him over. "Why are you darkening the doorstep like a stranger? Come over here." She motioned to a stool by a shelf of herbs in the corner of the kitchen. Recalled to the present, Ransom crossed the room and sat while Miyra went into an adjoining room. Familiar smells filled his nose, bringing back memories from his home in the Harper Hall. His chest began to hurt.

"I'm glad you had the sense to come to me right away," Miyra said, setting a basket of supplies on the kitchen table. She sorted through them, pulling out a mortar and pestle and a square bandage. "I think we can keep your lip from swelling too much if we can get a compress on it now."

"My lip is fine. I was more worried about this." He held up his left hand and Miyra gasped. He looked away, fighting the nausea that rose at the sight of his fingers. "Can you fix my fingers?" he asked, his voice cracking.

Miyra's cheeks were pale, but she nodded firmly. "You've come to the right woman. I can't tell you how many times Barrak's smashed his fingers in some way. Not that he's an incompetent smith, mind you, but accidents happen." She put back the mortar and pestle. "Now let's see this hand." Miyra's fingers were cool against his skin as she took his wrist. She turned his hand gently, examining his fingers from every angle. "They look like clean breaks. Lucky for you, none of them broke the skin. How's this feel?" She gently pressed a tendon on the back of his hand.

"It doesn't hurt too much," he lied between clenched teeth.

Miyra shook her head as she pulled thin strips of wood and a roll of bandages from her basket. "Manly bravado. Numbweed won't do much. Do you want to be dosed with fellis juice?" Her hand paused over a skinny jar with a cork stopper.

"No. I need to report after the evening meal."

"Too bad. You look like you could use a nap." Miyra pulled up a stool and squared herself toward him, her knees spread to accommodate her belly. She took his wrist with one hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "Ready? Try not to squirm. This might hurt a bit."

Ransom held his breath and gripped his knee with his good hand as Miyra skillfully set each finger. He retreated into his mind to work through an impossible drum passage in one of Omanda's compositions. As hard as he tried, he couldn't summon the music. Instead, his mind offered up the memory of Petrand's stricken face, the sound of his head snapping back and hitting the ground.

"How does that feel?" Miyra finished wrapping his hand and tucked in the ends of the bandage. She had realigned and splinted his fingers, reducing his hand to a mass of bandages. Ransom let his breath out through his nose and found his voice hiding behind his lungs.

"It feels fine. Th-thank you."

"You handled that well."

"Manly bravado," Ransom said with a forced smile, trying to keep his hand from trembling.

"Bravo," she replied, giving his knee a reassuring squeeze. She stood with a groan and placed loose supplies into her basket. "Now about your lip…"

"It's all right Miyra. Please, you've done enough." He held up his good hand to ward off additional help.

"It's a shame to see that handsome face marked up so."

Ransom blushed, unsure how to respond to Miyra's teasing. "How long until I can use my fingers?"

"A good two months. One in the splints, one in a brace. It takes time, but they will mend," she added in a gentle voice as Ransom's face fell.

"Is there any faster way?"

Miyra shook her head with firm finality. "Take the splints off too early and your fingers might heal crooked. I'd rather miss your music for two months than chance losing it for Turns."

Ransom nodded dumbly. His fingers still throbbed, following the cadence of his heart.

"How did it happen?"

"I got in a fight. Dared will be furious, won't he?"

"Maybe. It depends on what the fight was about."

"Some boys were beating Roe up. I tried to stop them."

"No harper worth his strings would fault you for that, m'boy. Are these the same boys that have been giving you trouble?" Miyra asked, her eyes glinting with unexpected ferocity. At his nod, she crossed her arms over her chest. "Those miscreants! If I weren't pregnant, I'd thrash them myself. Is Roe all right?"

"He'll have bruises and scrapes, I imagine, but no broken bones." In an unconscious gesture, Ransom hunched over his wrapped hand protectively. "I hurt one of the other boys pretty badly," he whispered, unable to look Miyra in the eye.

"How badly?"

"I knocked him down and he hit his head hard."

"Did he get up afterward?"

"No. The healer and his assistant had to carry him away."

"On a stretcher?"

Ransom shook his head.

Miyra smiled in reassurance. "Well, that means he can't have been hurt that bad, can he? If he was seriously injured, they would have used a stretcher. Don't you worry, m'boy, he'll mend. And if the Harper gets angry at you, I'll knock him down. Or I'll take his leg away." Her face brightened. "Maybe that would keep him Hold bound and he would actually have to sleep sometimes!"

Ransom thought of Miyra victoriously bearing Dared's leg aloft while the harper hopped desperately after her. A small smile quirked one side of his mouth. Faint relief began to calm his nerves.

"That's better," Miyra said, sitting back on her stool. "Does this mean we get to hear you sing?"

Ransom shook his head. "Not unless you're one of my students."

"Still shy? What happened to your manly bravado?"

"The manly part's what ruined my voice in the first place."

Miyra let out a musical laugh. "You dear boy." She drew his head closer and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. "I'm glad you came by. Come again anytime. Preferably without any gaping wounds. I like you better in one piece."

"I think I could manage that," Ransom said. His chest began to hurt again at the possibility of having to leave. He fought the thought fiercely.

"Good. Now, it seems we have a pressing matter to settle. I'm not going up to the Hold for the evening meal tonight." Miyra winked and lifted her head like a haughty Lady Holder. "Would you be a gentleman and keep this lady company over a simple repast?"

Ransom stood, swept his worries aside, and imitated one of Roe's courtly bows. "I would be delighted to," he said with as true of a grin as he could muster.


	9. Chapter 9

The balm of Miyra and Barrak's home had long worn off by the next morning. For their punishment, he and the other boys had been sentenced to muck out the Hold's sheepfolds and stables. They had worked through the evening and reported for a second round in the morning. Hours of shoveling manure with one good hand had tied knots worthy of sailors in Ransom's muscles along his back and shoulders. At least the foul odors had eventually seared away his sense of smell.

Sweaty and sore, Ransom straightened up gingerly to rest for a moment. His last stall was nearly done. He could hear Sammal and Nils toiling in the stalls on either side, the scrape of metal against wood and dirt, the slap of soiled hay and droppings hitting the wheelbarrow. Petrand was still too concussed to work. He would serve his time later. Ransom leaned his shovel against the stall divider and pressed his left wrist to ease the throbbing in his fingers.

The stable hand overseeing them paced by the open stall door. "No dawdlin' now," he said. "You need to get these stalls cleaned before they bring the runners back in."

Under the watchful eye of the stable hand, Ransom picked up his shovel and started on the back corner, wincing as the wood handle chafed his sore palm.

Sammal was wheeling a barrow of fresh hay up the corridor when Ransom stepped out to empty his slop bucket. The weaver apprentice looked quickly away. Ransom watched him with a twinge relief as he passed. The fight had revealed the truth about Petrand and his gang to the rest of the Crafthall. The boys would be watched. Their bullying was over for now. Or so Ransom hoped.

"Ransom," a loud voice interrupted his thoughts.

Ransom jumped a little, dropping some hay on the floor as he emptied his bucket. Roe leaned out from his stall and beckoned him over.

_You're talking again, _Ransom signed as well as he could with three fewer fingers than normal.

His brother nodded. "Father left…today."

Ransom winced and pointed to his ear. _Too loud, Roe._

Roe lowered his voice. "Father left today."

_I know._ The Masterharper had gone astride a Benden dragon hours ago.

Roe moved his mouth experimentally, as if mentally rehearsing the words before he spoke them aloud. "I saw him. Yess…terday? He said…he said he was said…sad? sad not to see you."

Ransom held in a bitter laugh. _I doubt that. Have you practiced talking much lately?_

Roe gave him a reproachful look for changing the subject. "Yes," he said finally. "With…father too. Why…why…" He crinkled his forehead, trying to remember how to make the sounds. After a moment, he gave up. _Why didn't you come see him with me?_

_I didn't want to see him. I don't want to talk about him either. _Ransom met Roe's scowl unflinchingly.

"You two, get back to work," the stablehand ordered, striding up the corridor. "Get the rest of these stalls mucked out so we can put down fresh hay."

Ransom put on a rueful half-smile. _Got to go._ He picked up his bucked and trudged back to his stall.

The lunch hour had already begun by the time they finished. Their sentence served, they stored their shovels and buckets in the back of the stable and were dismissed. A flurry of foot traffic traced the path from the bottom of the hill up to the Hold. The boys trudged up the path, their stomachs empty after a long morning of labor. Ransom and Roe let the weaver boys get ahead, the uneasy tension lifting as the distance between them widened.

_Does your hand hurt? _Roe asked.

Ransom shook his head and pressed his mouth into a tight smile.

_I'm sorry it happened,_ Roe signed.

Ransom shrugged off his brother's concern. _When did you learn how to throw a punch?_

Roe smiled faintly. _Gabrien taught me a thing or two._

Ransom's mouth fell open as they crossed under the arch of the Hold gate. "You actually asked someone to teach you to fight?" he said aloud in his surprise.

_I'll admit that fighting has its uses._ Roe grinned ruefully and stepped into the queue for lunches.

Layla appeared from the scullery and joined them, her face somber. "I heard about the fight," she said. "I don't know what to believe. The apprentices are saying that you jumped Petrand. You're rash, Ransom, but I don't think you're that stupid."

Ransom nodded, picking up three food parcels awkwardly with one hand and passing them to the others. "I did. He was beating Roe up," he added at Layla's gasp.

"The little worm!" she said fiercely, shaking her curls. "You did good by giving him a taste of his own medicine. I'm sorry you both got in trouble, though."

"Not so bad," Roe said, bending to contribute to the conversation at their height.

Layla's jaw dropped. "You talk?" Her voice emerged as a squeak.

Roe grinned cheekily and shrugged one shoulder.

"Why haven't you spoken up before! Have you been able to speak this whole time?"

"Just a…a little."

Layla laughed and flung her arms around Roe's neck. "I can't believe it!"

Ransom rolled his eyes over his half-eaten meatroll. His brother's newfound speech was opening up a whole new realm of flirtation.

"How much do you speak?" Layla demanded. "How did you learn? Can I help you practice?"

Roe shook his head in bemusement. She was speaking too quickly for him to follow her lips.

_She's fallen in love and wants to marry you within the hour,_ Ransom translated dryly.

_Eat dirt,_ Roe replied, his face going pink.

Ransom gawped at him. _You like her!_

Roe's blush only deepened.

"Come on, you'll have to tell me what you know on the way to the Crafthall." Layla grabbed Roe's hand. "You just finished being in trouble. I don't want you to be late for afternoon sectionals. Are you coming, Ransom?"

Ransom shook his head, bread sticking in his throat. The Harper had left orders with the stablehand. Ransom was to report to his superior's quarters for the afternoon. The last time Dared had seen him, Ransom had been dangling by the scruff like a mangy feline in Denmar's grip.

"I'll see you tonight, then," Layla said. "Let's go, Roe." The weaver girl held Roe's elbow, chattering as they crossed the courtyard.

Left alone, Ransom turned to face his fate. He slowly climbed the stairs up to the Harper's quarters, gathering his wits as he went. In the two weeks he had been at Ruatha, he had never seen Dared angry. He could only hope the Harper would understand. He steeled himself and pushed through the Harper's doorway, clearing his throat.

"Dared?"

The Harper sat at his worktable, his back to the door. "Come in, Ransom."

Ransom stepped gingerly into the room, resisting the urge to hide his left hand behind his back.

Dared swiveled around on his stool. Lines of weariness carved through his face like a stylus on a wax tablet. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Is Denmar done with you?"

"Yes," Ransom said.

"How is your hand?" Dared dropped his arm to his side, his normally expressive voice low and toneless.

"Miyra fixed it. She said it'll be six sevendays before I'll be able to use my fingers."

"Those bandages look like they want changing."

Ransom fingered his bindings, dirtied from long hours of manual labor. "I didn't have time to get cleaned up. Your orders were to report to you right away."

"Correct." Dared stood with a groan and took a moment to catch his breath. He looked Ransom in the eye and a sudden grin bloomed across his face. "So…did you give them hell?"

"What?"

"Those weaver boys. Denmar told me what happened. You did beat the daylights out of them, right? Made them pay for those broken fingers?"

Ransom blinked, bewildered. "You're not angry with me?"

"Of course not!"

"But—but I got in a fight. I can't play."

"Well, I can't say I'm pleased that your fingers are broken, but I'm certainly not upset that you stood up for yourself and your brother against bullies." Dared's grin softened into a rueful smile. "Harpers aren't concerned only with music, you know. We must also know how to fight, when to fight, and—most importantly—what to fight for. You'll make a fine harper, Ransom, I'm sure of it. You have spirit and the head to direct it."

Ransom blinked again, this time against tears. He dropped his head, embarrassed. Praise was the last thing he had been expecting.

"Come." Dared gripped Ransom's shoulder. "Let's go for a walk."

The Harper gave his apprentice time to compose himself, pulling out an abandoned jacket from behind a dusty gitar case. Ransom wiped his eyes and sniffled. Shrugging into the jacket, Dared gave him a wan smile and led the way out into the chilly winter sunshine.

"My knees get tired of sitting," Dared said as they strode down the path from the Hold, gravel crunching underfoot. "If I don't get up and give them a stretch, they freeze up and I'm as stuck as a crawler on its back." He breathed deeply. "Your father left this morning. I'm sorry you weren't able to see him."

Ransom shrugged, sending a piece of gravel flying with the toe of his boot. "I think he saw enough of me yesterday."

"He wanted to see you. Why didn't you come with Roe?"

"He was already angry with me. Why make it worse by showing my face again?"

"He wasn't angry—"

"He didn't even look at me when we passed you in the Crafthall courtyard." Ransom yanked a loose thread from a frayed edge on his bandage. "He can't stand the sight of me."

Dared stopped and turned to face Ransom, his face clouded over.

At the Harper's silence, Ransom changed tack. "Well, I won't be able to handle anything with sticks," he said, pressing his left wrist with a grimace, "but I could try hand drums."

"Don't change the subject," Dared said softly. "We weren't done talking."

"I don't want to talk about my father," Ransom said.

"Ransom, I don't think you understand—"

"There's not much to understand. He hates me. I've known it all my life."

"Your father doesn't hate you."

"I'm nothing but a disappointment."

"He's not disappointed in you—"

"He's never showed that he cared."

"—he's disappointed in himself. Will you just listen to me?" Dared snapped. His eyes bore into Ransom with frightening intensity. They were the same vibrant blue as the sky overhead, pupils contracted to black dots against the bright sunlight.

Ransom had never heard Dared raise his voice. "I know you're my father's friend, but you don't need to defend him to me," he said quietly.

"I'm not defending him because I'm his friend," Dared replied wearily. "I'm defending him because he's a good man,"—he countered Ransom's scornful look with a raised hand—"even though he's made mistakes. Yes, he's failed as a father, but he doesn't hate you, Ransom."

With effort, Ransom swallowed his bitter retorts. There was no good end to this conversation. Dared had been kind to him. The last thing Ransom wanted to do was take out his frustrations on the Harper.

"And it's ridiculous to hear you say you're a disappointment," Dared continued, letting out a strange sound that was halfway between a cough and a laugh. "You're Sabina's son, after all."

The abrupt mention of his mother took Ransom aback. Slim fingers of expectation tightened around his chest. "You knew my mother. Can you tell me about her?" he asked.

Dared regarded the dusty ground for a long moment.

Ransom's patience wore thin. "Why don't you want to talk about her?" He meant the question as a challenge, but it slipped out like a plea. "I never knew her. I just want to know what she was like."

Dared was silent.

"Forget it." Ransom exhaled sharply in frustration and turned back towards the Hold.

"She sang beautifully."

The Harper's voice was nearly too soft to hear, but it stopped Ransom in his tracks. He turned around, suddenly hopeful.

A sad smile lifted one side of Dared's mouth. "You inherited her voice."

Ransom stepped closer eagerly. "Was she a harper?"

"No, but she could have been one, had she better prospects. She came from a small cot on the fringe of Fort's holdings, fostered out by her struggling relatives to work in the Hall kitchens."

"How did you know her?"

A wistful chuckle escaped Dared's lips. "We met during my first year as an apprentice. Some of the older boys were picking on me during dinner. We were sitting at the table she was serving. When one of the boys dumped my plate into my lap, she poured hot soup on his head." His mouth curved in a lopsided smile. "You have her spirit, to be sure. We were good friends after that. Even though I was an apprentice and she a kitchen girl, we found ways to go on adventures and get into scrapes. Even after I was Searched and Impressed, I made sure to see her when I returned to the Harper Hall every few months to train as Weyrsinger."

"Did you love her?"

The unexpected question jerked Dared from his nostalgic reverie. His startled blue eyes searched Ransom's. Ransom held his breath and met the other man's gaze.

"Yes," Dared said quietly. "But from afar. Your father admired her as well, you see. He was my best friend and four Turns my senior. I was used to being in his shadow, so I kept my feelings to myself."

"But my father married Kesandra."

"Yes. By that time, I was a dragonrider at Fort." Dared pressed his lips together in a sorry excuse for a smile. "Dragonmen aren't given much of an opportunity to love outside the Weyr."

"Did my mother love my father?"

Dared spoke slowly, measuring out each word. "He was one of her closest friends."

Ransom narrowed his eyes. The Harper was leaving something out. "Did she love him?" he pressed.

Dared's gaze shifted to the hills, the sky, the ground, everywhere but Ransom's face. "No," he said finally in a low voice. "Not like that."

Ransom frowned. "Then why—?"

"—were you born?" Dared exhaled and he bent over to massage his bad knee. He continued in the same low voice, eyes shut tight. "Your father was shattered when Roe's condition was confirmed. He went for solace first to drink, then to Sabina. He still admired her, even after he married Kesandra. That night, he was drunk and broken and wanted something from her that he would never have asked for in his right mind. When she refused, he became angry and took her even so."

Slow realization sent icy fingertips creeping up Ransom's spine.

"Once your father was sober again," Dared continued softly, "he was devastated at what he did. He begged her forgiveness. But for Kesandra, he would have offered to marry her."

"That's what happened?" Ransom's voice shook. "What happened to my father? Was he punished?"

"No. Sabina didn't want anyone else to know. She told me she had forgiven him."

"She _forgave_ him?"

Dared nodded wordlessly, staring at the dusty gravel beneath his feet.

The choked laugh burst from Ransom's throat before he could stop it. He lowered his face into his hands, his trembling fingers ice against his skin. "And I had wanted his forgiveness. Who else knew?"

"Only your father and Kesandra. Sabina wrote me at the Weyr, once she knew she was with child."

"Why did no one tell me?" Ransom demanded, shooting Dared a furious glare. "No, don't answer that, of course I know." He scoffed darkly. "I guess it shouldn't surprise me that my father is more of a bastard than I am."

"Ransom, I—"

Ransom turned his back before Dared could finish. His head whirled. He couldn't see the path through his tears, nor hear anything past his pounding heart. His feet carried him blindly forward and he broke into a stumbling run. The world was a blur of too-bright colors. The wind stung his eyes and tears spilled down his cheeks. Gravel gave way to grass beneath his feet and he ran, leaving Dared and Ruatha far behind.

* * *

"How long has he been gone?" Miyra asked again.

"Midday is when he ran out," Barrak replied. He sat across from her at an empty table in the main hall.

"And it's just three hours till midnight," she muttered. "Dared searched the Hold?"

"And the Crafthall. He made it to the woodsmith's guild before he had to return to meet Daxel and Aegellan."

"What's a one-legged harper doing all the way by the woodsmith's guild?" Miyra grumbled.

"Layla and Roe are searching now."

"What made him run off like that?"

"Something Dared said."

Miyra arched an eyebrow. "Dared says a lot of things."

Barrak shrugged his huge shoulders. "He didn't tell me anything specific. He said it wasn't his story to tell."

"That harper. This is not the time to be playing games."

"When is it ever the time to play games for you?" Barrak teased her gently.

"When I'm not pregnant," Miyra retorted. "That's been all of my life except the past eight months. Dared has had ample opportunities."

Barrak squeezed her fingers tenderly. She laid her free hand on the stump of his ruined wrist and smiled up at him.

"He'll be all right, yes?" she asked, worrying despite herself.

Barrak nodded and brought her hand to his lips. "He's no fool. He'll come back when he's ready."

"Miyra! Barrak!"

Layla pushed through the big doors at the far end of the hall, her voice ringing shrilly down the stone walls. Her brown curls were wild around her flushed face. "We found him! He's on the steps to the fire heights." She paused to catch her breath.

Barrak winked at Miyra. "See? Told you."

"Roe's out there now, trying to get him to come in, but he won't budge or talk."

"I could carry him," Barrak offered.

"I'm sure if the boy wanted to walk, he would," Miyra said tartly. "He probably wants to be alone now. I'll go talk to him."

Barrak held in a humored remark, trying not to smile. There was no stopping his wife when she was in one of her moods. "Do you want me to walk you there?"

Miyra shook her head and heaved herself upright. "The exercise will do me good."

"I'll wait for you here," Barrak said.

"Thank you, dear," Miyra replied, her barbs laid down for a moment. "All right, Layla, lead the way."

The cold night air refreshed Miyra's tired body as she followed Layla into the courtyard. She was cranky and her back hurt, but the scent of damp earth sleeping beneath a night sky lifted her weary spirits. Stars gilded the clear sky with trembling, flickering light. It wasn't a night to be wasted on moping.

"I'm worried, Miyra," Layla said. "I've never seen him like this before. He won't even talk to Roe."

Miyra squeezed the girl's hand. "He'll be fine. He's young and strong and he's got a good head on his shoulders. Don't you fret."

She spotted them on the fire heights steps. Thankfully, they hadn't gone all the way up. Ransom sat folded up in the middle of the stairs, his chin buried in his bent knees. Roe sat beside him, his head inclined close to his brother's ear. Miyra heaved herself up to the step below Roe and tapped his shoulder.

"I'll take care of him, dear," she said. She gestured down the stairs. "You go on with Layla, now."

Roe looked at her uncertainly.

"Go on," Miyra urged gently. "I'll sit with him."

The older boy nodded slowly and stood. He squeezed Ransom's shoulder and bent over Miyra's hand before descending the steps to where Layla waited. Miyra waited until they were gone before lowering herself to sit beside Ransom. She sighed. Everything made her sigh these days. Ransom only blinked. His eyes were swollen, his silence punctuated by an occasional sniffle. A tangled lock of black hair had fallen into his eyes. She wanted to smooth it back from his forehead, to take him into her arms, rub his back, and let him rest his head on her shoulder. If he was five Turns younger, she would do it. As old as he was now, she knew he would hate it.

Curbing her motherly instinct, Miyra turned to words instead. "So, my young man, what's wrong?"

He closed his eyes and propped his chin up on his kneecaps, inhaling long and slow through his nose.

"I heard the bones of the matter from Barrak," Miyra continued, "but I want to hear from _you_ how _you_ are doing."

Silence was his only response.

Miyra shifted to a position that was kinder to her backside. "I'm nearly too fat to sit here," she muttered. "I can't wait to have this baby out. I haven't seen my toes in a sevenday, which concerns me greatly. Never thought I'd miss them, but I do." She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He did nothing discourage her, so she kept prattling. "The worst is constantly feeling like I need to relieve myself. Oh, and stairs. These aren't so bad, though." She patted the stone riser. "If I had it my way, I'd have this baby tonight. But I don't know who would attend me. That's the problem with being the only midwife in the Hold. Not that I'm worried. I've attended enough births to be fine on my own. I'd like another birthing woman with me just in case. I don't think anything will go wrong, but you never know."

"Does it happen often?" The question was little more than a whisper.

"What did you say my dear? I'm afraid this baby has made me hard of hearing, as well as fat and incontinent."

"Do things go wrong often for ladies giving birth?"

"Yes, I suppose," she conceded, "but more than half of the births I've attended had no problems."

"Have you ever attended a lady who—who died?"

Miyra nodded slowly. "Once. She was very young. Only a Turn or so older than you are now." She closed her eyes at the memory. The mother had been little more than a girl, young body racked with pain, unable to endure the strain of birth.

"Why did she die?"

"She was too young," Miyra said softly. "Too small. She had had difficulties throughout her pregnancy." And despite all Miyra's efforts, the baby had died as well. "Life often comes at a high price."

"Is it the baby's fault when a lady dies?"

"No, dear," she said firmly. "It's no one's fault. Sometimes terrible things happen and there is little we can do about it."

"But sometimes we do terrible things." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "My mother died when I was born. I used to think it was my fault."

"No, Ransom." Miyra lifted his face with both hands. His skin was hot, but he didn't pull away. Moisture brimmed in his eyes, leaving droplets along his eyelashes when he blinked. "Ransom," she repeated. "It wasn't your fault that your mother died." He met her gaze then and more tears traced down his cheeks, wetting her fingers. "It was an accident. A terrible accident."

He pulled away from her grasp and rested his chin on his knees again, closing his eyes against the tears. "I used to think I had killed her. And I thought that was why my father hated me." His eyes were hard when they opened, glittering in the torch-light. "Now, I know the truth. My father can't bear to look at me because I remind him of his guilt!"

"Ransom—"

He covered his face with both hands and his shoulders shook. A moment later, what Miyra had thought were sobs turned into a bitter, humorless laugh.

"You know what's ironic?" he asked from behind his hands. "Some people say that a bastard is a love child. A love child! I could never be called that. I'm a bastard, yes, but not because of love." His uninjured fingers curled into a fist against his eyes. "I was born from a rape."

Miyra sat motionless as the pieces came together. "That's what Dared told you," she said quietly. "That's why you're upset."

He didn't answer her, burying his face in his arms instead. Her heart ached for him. She understood, but words evaded her. The baby stirred, as if prompting her to speak. With gentle fingers she turned his face towards her and smoothed back his tangled hair. "My dear boy. The circumstances surrounding your birth may have been tragic and awful, but you are not. Tell me, is there anything tragic and awful about this?" She took his right hand and laid it on her belly where the baby was still moving. He stiffened, a torn look frozen on his face. "You were as this child," she continued. "And like this child, you are dearly loved."

"By who?" He pulled away angrily.

"Me," Miyra replied, "and I'm pregnant, so I count for two. Dared. Your brother. Layla. The girl does have funny ways of showing it, though."

"Do you think my father loves me as well?" he said through his teeth, his jaw set in challenge.

"I'm sure he does," she said.

"Well, I hate him. With good reason, finally." He dried his eyes with an angry swipe of his wrist. "Roe always gave him the benefit of the doubt, so I tried to do the same, like a good little brother. And a good little son. Now I know the truth, and I hate him for it." He glanced sideways at her. "Are you going to tell me I'm wrong?" he asked defiantly.

Folding her hands in her lap, Miyra thought for a moment. "No," she said after a measured pause. "But I hope you change your mind someday."

"It'll be a long wait," he muttered in a dark voice, fiddling with the fraying linen binding his fingers.

"Do you think you can forgive him?"

"No! I wish he wasn't my father." He turned his face away and rested his head on his arms. "I should never have been born."

"I disagree." Miyra kept her tone light despite the sadness in her heart. "Maybe it's selfish of me, but I like having you around." She picked a twig from the back of his hair. He had wandered far, to reach the forested hills.

"Don't tell Roe."

"You don't want him to know?"

"Sometime, yes, but not now. I don't know how to tell him yet."

Miyra nodded in assent, echoing Barrak's words. "It's not my story to tell, anyways." She brushed his hair back from his forehead and took his chin again. "I love you, dear boy. Don't you forget it."

Lower lip quivering faintly, Ransom nodded.

"Will you be all right?"

Another nod.

"Tell me if you need anything." Miyra released his chin, which promptly dropped back to his knees. The poor boy. She wished she could wrap him in an embrace and pour love into him through her arms, but he wasn't a child. He needed to find his own way. If he wanted help, she would give him anything she had. He had only to ask. Bracing her hands on the steps, she prepared herself for the trial of standing. "Come on, let's go back inside. You must be hungry. I can get you something to eat."

Ransom shook his head. "I'm staying out here."

"It's getting cold."

"I don't want to go inside."

"Fair enough." Miyra shrugged. "At the least, get those wrappings changed. You could just about plant a garden in there." She heaved herself up with a groan, swaying off balance.

Concern chasing out sullenness, Ransom scrambled upright and caught her around the waist to steady her.

"Thank you, Ransom dear. I can make it back on my own." She patted his arm in gratitude and carefully descended the steps. She looked back once from across the torch-lit courtyard. He was just disappearing behind the fire heights at the top of the stairs. The baby kicked again. She spread her hands over the spot, wonder mixing with the sadness that weighed down her heart. "Help him," she whispered into the uncertain night. Only the stars and an unborn child were witness to her prayer. She sighed and pushed through the main doors into the bright hall where Barrak was waiting.


	10. Chapter 10

Dared realized he was rubbing his knee absentmindedly and forced himself to stop. The conversation had long left him behind. He dismissed his meandering thoughts and made an effort to attend. The tableau was the same as before his mind had wandered. Haligon sat propped up in his bed, bony hands resting on the sleeping furs. His eyes were sharp and some of his color had returned. Johannon stood at his bedside, his hands folded behind his back. Daxel lounged in a padded chair across from Dared. His posture oozed nonchalance, but Dared could read the tension in the young lord's eyes.

Haligon let out a hoarse cackle and thumped the bed as if the Masterhealer had told a joke. "A month! It's been seven days since I fell ill, Johannon. I won't spend another full month flat on my back like some invalid."

"Yes, my lord, you will," Johannon said with a patient smile. "Your body needs to rest. I don't want you to strain yourself and run the risk of a relapse."

Haligon grumbled testily to himself like a toothless old uncle.

"Listen to the man, father," Daxel said, holding up a glass of blood-red wine to the light. "Why would we bring him up from Fort only to ignore his advice?"

"Suddenly so concerned about saving my life, Daxel?" Haligon said archly. "It's touching."

"I was exiled for three Turns, father. Am I not allowed to miss you?"

"I'm not sure if it's me you miss, or your chance at succeeding me."

"That's enough," Johannon said in a voice of quiet authority. "You can continue sniping at each other when the Lord Holder has recovered. On top of bed rest, Lord Haligon, I also advise you to avoid arguments and sarcasm."

"That would make things blessedly quiet around here," Daxel said with an acidic smirk.

"My advice applies to you as well, young Daxel," Johannon said sharply. His dark eyes glittered with cold disdain. "You would do well to show your father more respect in his ill health."

The chamber door swung open to a tray-carrying Aegellan. He stepped into the room, face impassive as always. He glanced slowly around to gauge the scene.

"Ah, cousin. I was just about to make a toast. To my father's health." Daxel raised his glass and drained half of the crimson liquid.

"You are kind, cousin. My lord." Aegellan bowed, acknowledging Dared and Johannon with formal nods. "I had Bora bring up the extra furs you requested." He stepped aside to let a serving girl past. Daxel arched an eyebrow as she passed, her hips swaying gently. She bobbed a quick curtsey and deposited her load at the foot of Haligon's bed.

"Thank you, Bora," Johannon said. The girl blushed prettily and hurried from the room, Daxel's eyes following her as she left.

"Johannon, you're a saint," Haligon sighed. "Forgive us for subjecting you to our petty quarrels."

"Did I miss something?" Aegellan asked, setting his tray at his uncle's bedside.

"More mush?" Haligon said with a mournful frown.

"Masterhealer's orders." Johannon's smile was strained around the eyes.

"Ah well, you do know best, as my son has so kindly pointed out."

Daxel lifted his glass in silent salute, eyes cold above a mocking smile.

"If that is all, I will take my leave for the afternoon." Johannon bent slightly at the waist. He left the room, taking his calm control with him. A familiar tension settled around the Ruathan lords in his wake.

"Dared, I owe you an apology as well," Haligon said, lifting a shaking hand to his forehead. "We've put on quite the display."

"No apology is necessary," Dared replied.

Haligon managed a rueful grimace. "You have my thanks, Harper." He seemed to sink back into his pillows, looking like a much older man. "What news of the northern Holds?"

With effort, Dared stood, ignoring his ruined leg's complaints. Bad news should never be given sitting down. Hands folded behind his back, he gave his report and watched Haligon's face grow solemn. "Benden still awaits your decision, Lord Haligon," he finished.

"The dragonriders of Pern will always have Ruatha's support," Haligon said sternly.

Aegellan shook his head. "It disturbs me that Lord Tennol would feel otherwise."

"Tennol is no fool," Daxel said from his chair. He stood fluidly and sauntered to the foot of his father's bed. "The world has changed. The time is ripe to make our own way."

"And abandon the Weyrs?"

"Weyr," Daxel corrected his father. "Crom has never been bound to Benden. Neither has Ruatha, for that matter."

Haligon's face darkened. "Bound? Need I remind you that your sister was Weyrwoman—"

"Mardra's gone," Daxel said flatly. "And with her, the Weyr under her leadership and four others. Obviously, they were no longer needed. This is the Holder's time, father. Gods and demons have gone, leaving us men to our own devices."

"Gods and demons?" Dared repeated curiously.

Daxel turned lazily to face him, wearing a patronizing smile. "The dragonmen. Thread. Both quickly becoming relics of a past age."

Dared matched Daxel's smile with one of his own. "A bold claim to make in a harper's hearing."

"Are you going to slap my wrist for my heresy, Harper?" Daxel asked.

Dared shrugged. "Heresy in children is to be expected. Sophistry in a young lord, however, cannot be helped." He lowered himself slowly back into his seat. He was tired. With Daxel's presence in the Hold, Dared's work at home was as wearisome as it was abroad. The Harper had little desire to continue the conversation.

"My lord Haligon, should we leave you to rest?" Aegellan asked, his dark eyes settling on Daxel. It was less a suggestion than it was a veiled command.

Dared took his cue, heaving himself upright with an ill-concealed groan. "My lord Daxel, would you accompany me out? I would like to hear more of your thoughts, but let's not disturb your father." It was the last thing he wanted to do, but his occupation lately had very little to do with what he wanted.

To his relief, the young lord nodded acquiescence. "Have I been deemed worthy to match wits with a Harper?" he asked, bowing and gesturing sardonically for Dared to lead the way out.

"You'll have no wordplay from me," Dared said wearily. "I'm content to shut up and be an ear." If only Daxel could do the same. But he didn't voice this last thought, only smiled at the young lord and limped out.

* * *

Miyra woke to darkness. Barrak was still sleeping beside her, his breathing low and even in the quiet. The pain that had awoken her faded slowly. She caught her breath and wiped sweat from her forehead. The shoulder she had been sleeping on was numb, but it took too much effort to turn over on her own and she didn't want to wake Barrak.

Spring was still weeks away, but Miyra sweltered in the added warmth of her pregnancy. She flipped the blankets off of her and closed her eyes. Another interrupted night of sleep. She could count on one hand the number of times she had slept through the night in the past month. According to her calculations, the baby still had three weeks to go. The pain returned and Miyra's eyes shot open. The contraction only lasted a few seconds. She started counting once it was gone. She thought about everyone she loved, hoping for their health and happiness. Barrak, her family in Lemos, Dared, Layla, Ransom, Roe, the baby girl she delivered last month. At the end of her list, she added another quick prayer for Ransom. Five minutes passed before another contraction hit. She shifted onto her back, but remained in bed even as her heart pounded. It was too early. She didn't want to wake Barrak for nothing.

The contractions came faster and grew in length and intensity. After a particularly strong one, she dropped her head back into the pillow, gasping and sweaty.

"You weren't supposed to come for three more weeks!" she scolded her belly. Apparently her baby had a mind of his own.

"Barrak." She reached over and shook his shoulder. "Barrak!"

"Hmm?" He grunted. His eyes fluttered open for a brief second before sliding shut again. "What's wrong?"

"I think it's time."

"What? What time—oh!" He sat up and placed his good hand on her belly. "Is the baby coming?"

Miyra bit her lip and nodded as another contraction began. "Help me up," she gasped. Barrak obeyed with alacrity, stacking pillows behind her back.

"Go fetch Levine," she said once she was settled, hiding a smile at her husband's nervous solicitation. She had asked the journeywoman to attend her just the other day.

"Will you be all right by yourself?" Barrak asked worriedly. He brushed her hair back from her forehead.

Miyra managed a breathless laugh. "I'll be fine. If this baby's like most, he won't come for hours yet."

Barrak kissed her and squeezed her hand. "Let's hope she's like most, then." He threw on trousers and boots. "Hold on, love. Help is coming."

Miyra sat back and kicked the rest of the blankets off. Through the window, she could see the moons dipping back towards the mountains in the west.

"I just washed the sheets yesterday," she muttered, fingering the pillow covering behind her back. "Well, baby, if you can't follow any of my other timetables, would you at least try to make it out by dawn?"

* * *

As usual, Riand was the last to leave the classroom once Ransom dismissed his students. The little boy marched up to Ransom and pulled on his tunic.

"When wi' you pway ya dwum again?"

Ransom smiled faintly and held up his injured hand. "Not for a month at least. Until then, I can only sing."

"At least you don't sing half bad, Harper boy," Layla said. She leaned against the lintel of the classroom, green eyes seeming to laugh at him.

"Thanks," Ransom replied lamely, discomfited at Layla's sudden appearance. He had avoided company for most of the past few days.

Riand, on the other hand, had no such inhibitions. "Waywa!" He shot to the door, pudgy arms held out.

"My little man Riand!" Layla scooped him up into a hug. "Oof! Not so little anymore, are you? I swear you get bigger every day."

"You shouldn't sweah. Ma says it's bad."

"Wouldn't want to cross your ma, would I?" Layla nodded solemnly, slipping a quick wink in Ransom's direction as she set Riand down. "Me and Riand go way back. His ma took care of me when I first came to Ruatha. Levine's her younger sister, you know."

"I didn't know that." Ransom took another look at his pupil, trying to find a resemblance to the lanky journeywoman in Riand's grubby face.

The boy tugged on Layla's tunic impatiently. "Why don't you evuh come visit?"

"I'm sorry, little man. I have a lot of apprentice work. You could come see me and your auntie Levine."

Riand shook his head, suddenly shy. He hugged Layla quickly around the knees and darted from the room without a goodbye.

"What a funny kid," Layla said with a sideways smile.

"Don't you have afternoon sectionals, Layla?" Ransom asked, reaching up to adjust his tambour on his shelf. He missed playing.

Layla straightened up, the laughter gone from her eyes. "My section got a break. I haven't seen you in a few days."

"I've been busy."

"So've I, but I don't avoid my friends."

"I haven't been avoiding you." Ransom straightened a stack of scores on the table to keep his fidgety hands busy. "I've just had a lot on my mind."

Layla rolled her eyes. "Roe's right, you're terrible at lying. Anyways, I didn't come to see you just to bemoan your absence. I wanted to give you the news."

"What news?"

Layla's eyes danced with excitement. "Miyra's baby was born yesterday!"

Ransom' s heart thunked against his ribs. "Is everyone all right?"

"Of course! Miyra's birthed at least a hundred babies. Getting her own out shouldn't have been so bad, right? Levine was attending her, so Denmar had to take over her class yesterday. My class got the afternoon off today because we're ahead on all our work."

"Have you seen them?"

"Not yet." Her smile widened. "It's a girl, though. Levine told me. Said she looks exactly like Barrak."

"Has she been named?"

"I don't know. We can go find out today."

Ransom nodded unenthusiastically. On any other day, he would want nothing more than to see Miyra and her baby, but he still felt out of sorts. Out of small tasks to occupy himself, he shoved his hand into his pocket as an awkward silence descended.

Layla flicked her hair over her shoulder with an impatient toss of her head. "Look, you don't have to tell me what's made you clam up like this, but will you at least stop running away from everyone?"

"I'm not running away."

"You're right. You're not running. You look more like a watch wher tripping over its chain to hide in its den."

Ransom shrugged a shoulder. "Running has never been my specialty."

"No, you're too busy getting your face rearranged by bullies." Layla waited expectantly, her head tilted to one side. At Ransom's continued silence, she sighed. "Okay, maybe that was a bad joke. How are your fingers?"

"Broken."

Unfazed, she grinned cheekily. "Then you can't be busy now. You can't practice, so you should come with me." She skipped to him and pulled on his arm.

"Layla—"

"Come on, Ransom," she pleaded, shaking his shoulder. "You haven't even talked to your brother in the past few days. Roe's been making some really beautiful things. We should go see him. If he's not busy, then we could all swing by Miyra's to see her." The look in her wide green eyes could melt a rock.

No girl had ever looked at Ransom like that before. He realized with a strange sensation in his chest that Layla was very pretty. He found himself nodding in agreement. Before he fully realized what was happening, Layla clapped her hands and seized his elbow to drag him from the room.

"You probably haven't heard that Petrand's back in the Crafthall," she began, looping her arm through his once they were walking. "Shards, I hate him. At least the journeymen are cracking down on him and his gang. Everyone's heard what happened. No one's impressed with him anymore, especially since he got beat by a kid half his size." She elbowed him playfully. "That'd be you, you know."

"Watch it, I've a bruise there," Ransom protested.

"You have not, you big baby."

The breeze tossed her curls into Ransom's face. He tried to edge away from her, but she had a firm grip on his arm.

"So, I've shared my news," she continued as they crossed the courtyard. "What do you have?"

"Nothing."

"Rubbish. You're a harper. You have to know about something interesting in the Hold."

"Lord Haligon is improving. The Masterhealer is returning to Fort in a few days."

Layla nodded. "I know. Winna has the kitchen in a frenzy preparing a feast to send him off and celebrate Haligon's recovery."

"Daxel is staying longer, though."

"I'm sure that won't speed up Lord Haligon's recovery," Layla shook her head. "Holders and their politics."

Ransom sent a chunk of gravel skittering down the path. "I wager it's simpler than that. Not all fathers and sons get along, you know."

Layla watched him from the corner of her eye, but he refused to give her more than that. It had been only a few days since Moregan's visit. Raw wounds wanted no prodding.

Ransom caught a flash of sandy hair in the corner of his eye. Petrand and Nils were approaching the path from the apprentice dormitory. Layla stiffened beside him.

"Ugh," she muttered. "Please don't start anything, Ransom."

Petrand saw them coming and his eyes narrowed. But for a few scrapes, his face showed no sign of their fight. Ransom's remorse for hurting him drained away. They passed each other on the path, Petrand staring daggers at them. Ransom met his gaze fearlessly until the other boy looked away. A small spark of triumph leaped up in his chest.

Layla sighed in relief once the weaver boys were behind them. "Thank goodness for that. I was afraid he was going to say something and lower everyone else's intelligence with his idiocy. Can't have that, can we? You, for one, don't have brains to spare."

"No, they've all been talked out of me by some weaver girl."

Layla clapped Ransom's shoulder with a happy laugh. "You made a joke! It's about time you stopped moping around."

"I wasn't moping."

Layla pulled a dour face. "You look like you woke up under the wrong end of a draybeast." She pulled the Crafthall door open. The racket of the workshop washed over them as they stepped into the high-ceilinged room. "Roe's in the back." Layla lead the way through rows of looms that ranged from huge, complicated tapestry rigs to small handlooms for simple projects and trimming. Ransom breathed in the earthy scents of wood oil and wool mixed with the sharp tang of dye.

"Brenthon's pulled Roe to help with designs for the tapestry," Layla said. "It's unheard of. None of us other apprentices are even allowed near it."

"What's the tapestry?" Ransom asked.

"Lord Haligon commissioned it near the end of the Pass. Everyone says it'll be Brenthon's masterpiece. He wants the final design done by the Spring Festival, but the tapestry itself will take Turns to complete."

Roe's workstation was in the back corner. His dark head was bent over a table as three apprentices watched him avidly.

"Roe!" Layla elbowed past the apprentices and touched Roe's shoulder. "Look who's here to see you!" She threw a casual arm around Ransom's shoulders.

Roe's smile didn't quite make it to his eyes, his gaze lingering for the briefest moment on Layla's arm. Even so, he pulled Ransom into a hug and tousled his hair._ Where have you been?_ _I've hardly seen you. You've even been waking up before me._

"Sorry Roe," Ransom said and ducked away. "I had a lot on my mind."

"I practically had to drag him here," Layla said. "You should show him your drawings."

Roe grinned and pushed Ransom to the table to show off his work. Ransom sucked in his breath. The table was covered in drawings of dragons—whirling in flight, wings flung wide, spouting gouts of flame.

"These are incredible!" Ransom exclaimed. Roe beamed, a smudge of charcoal darkening the pale skin of his forehead. Ransom bent over the table for a closer examination. Roe's hand ranged from loose and expressive strokes to painstakingly precise hatch marks. Each sketch showcased his talent. A mix of emotions wove through Ransom's insides. He was fiercely proud of his half-brother, but he was also painfully aware of the half they didn't share.

"What more do you have left to draw?" Layla asked.

Roe picked up a slate and chalk lying on the table to scrawl a response. _Three men with flamethrowers._

"Do you have a lot of work left for today?"

Roe shrugged and continued writing. _Not really. I have no formal tutorial, just work to complete on my own time._

"Then you should come with us!" Layla pronounced. "Ransom and I are going to Miyra's cothold to visit her and the new baby."

Roe's eyes widened in surprise. "The baby…born?" he asked haltingly. "Now?"

Layla rolled her eyes. "Weren't you paying any attention yesterday? Denmar announced it in front of the whole crafthall!"

"Denmar…" Roe flapped his fingers to imitate a talking mouth and shrugged. "Too fast."

"Oh, sorry Roe." Layla seemed to deflate. "I forgot you're still learning lips."

"It's okay." Roe tweaked her nose, leaving a smear of charcoal on her fair skin. "Let's go!" He jerked his head towards the exit. Layla looped her arm through his. Before they set off, she twisted and caught Ransom by the sleeve with her other hand.

"Don't you run away on me now," she said, her green eyes narrowed.

"I wouldn't do that," he protested, pulling out of her grasp. "I want to see Miyra as much as you do."

"Good. I have my eye on you, Harper boy."

"What for?" Ransom shot back boldly. "You already have Roe wrapped around your finger."

He was rewarded as Layla blushed bright red, but his satisfaction was short-lived.

"Ow!" He rubbed his arm, still stinging where she had smacked him.

And so it went all the way to Miyra's cothold. Layla and Ransom ribbed each other good-naturedly, Roe applauding whenever Layla scored a good hit.

"Whose side are you on, Roe?" Ransom demanded in mock indignation after Layla delivered a particularly bruising remark. "I'm your brother!" Shaking his head as Layla and Roe laughed behind him, he knocked on Miyra's door.

Layla sobered up quickly, digging an elbow into Roe's ribs. "Hush! There's a baby inside!"

The door opened. Levine stood in the doorway, a smile blooming across her face. "You three! What a pleasant surprise! Come on in, Miyra'll be so happy to see you."

"How are they?" Layla asked in a loud whisper, Roe close behind her.

"They're resting in the bedroom." Levine cocked her head towards a closed door.

"Is Miyra awake?" Ransom interjected.

Levine nodded. "You all have impeccable timing. I was just making a run to the necessary. Go on in."

Miyra raised her head as they stepped into the bedroom, a smile smoothing the weariness from her face. She was propped up in bed, her head bent over a bundle in her arms. Her dark hair hung loose over her shoulders, making her look almost girlish.

"All three of you at the same time?" she said. "Can your craft superiors spare so much talent at once?"

"I don't know about the boys, but Brenthon's relieved to see me go," Layla said, plopping herself at Miyra's bedside. "He's always grumbling about me."

"That means he likes you, m'girl," Miyra said. "Brenthon's a genius with yarn, but everything else in life he does completely backward."

Layla shrugged off the compliment. "Enough about me. Can we see her?"

Miyra laughed quietly. She pulled a fold of soft blanket away from the bundle in her arms, revealing a tiny pink face.

Layla gasped. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the bed. "She's beautiful!"

Roe bent forward to get a closer look as well, eyes wide in wonder. Above them, Miyra's face glowed.

"What's her name?" Layla asked.

"Kara," Miyra replied. "Barrak named her."

"That's lovely," Layla said.

"He likes traditional naming. It's a good thing we didn't have a boy, or he'd be named Barmy." Miyra trailed off as her chuckle turned into a hoarse cough.

Layla hopped up, her eyes wide in concern. "Let me get you some water." She darted from the room.

"Are you all right?" Ransom asked, taking Layla's place.

Still coughing, Miyra nodded, careful to turn her face away from the baby. "Yes," she gasped. "I just choked on my own spit." She shifted half-heartedly beneath the covers. "Will you take her for me? I need to sit up. I've a terrible crick in my back."

Ransom held up his bandaged hand. "But I can't hold her."

"Nonsense. If my one-handed husband can do it, you can too." She snorted at his hesitation. "I just gave birth, so you have to do as I say. Now come here."

Ransom reluctantly obeyed, shuffling forward. Miyra laid the baby gently in his arms, resting her head securely in the crook of his elbow. He held his breath, not daring to move a muscle. Kara's soft weight was barely more than his tambour. She was so small, so fragile. He looked down at her little face, at the tiny fingers curled over the edge of the blanket, and gingerly eased out a low exhalation. Then her eyes opened and his heart stopped. Bluer than Roe's, her eyes looked off in different directions, as if eager to see everything at once. She opened her mouth, tasting the air. What was going on in her mind, he wondered, as she experienced the world for the first time? To her, everything was new, innocent as freshly fallen snow. She was perfect. Ransom realized he would do anything to protect her.

"She's awake!" Layla whispered, appearing at his elbow with a cup in hand. "Isn't she beautiful, Ransom?"

"I think he's in love," Miyra replied with a wink. She had pushed herself into an upright sitting position and smiled gratefully as Roe adjusted the pillows behind her back. "I've never seen a harper rendered speechless."

"How do I give her back?" Ransom murmured, afraid she would break if he spoke too loudly. "I don't want to drop her."

"Here." Miyra leaned forward to take her daughter. Ransom surrendered the precious bundle, breathing normally at last. A little fist waved over the edge of the blanket, still newborn-thin and fragile as spun sugar. "These are your uncles and auntie, my Kara," Miyra said, turning her slightly so that she faced the others. "They're going to watch out for you, am I right?" She gave the three apprentices an expectant look.

"I will, at least," Layla said, leaning forward. "These boys have a hard enough time watching out for themselves."

"We'll teach you important things," Ransom said solemnly. "Like how to stand up to bullies and get into proper mischief."

Miyra snorted and tucked Kara into the crook of her arm. "Let's postpone the mischief until she's out of nappies, eh m'boy?"

"How about until she walks?"

Miyra shook her head and sighed in exasperation. "You're impossible."

The apprentices didn't stay for long, saying goodbye after a few minutes. "Leaving so soon?" Levine asked as they filed out of the bedroom.

"We don't want to tire Miyra out," Layla explained. "She needs her rest, and Roe has drawings to return to."

"Give my regards to my first years," Levine called. "Make sure Denmar isn't working them too hard."

Ransom stayed silent for most of their walk back to the Crafthall. Roe and Layla chatted as well as they could, alternating between improvised gestures and Roe's stilted speech. Ransom walked in the wake of their interaction, glad he wasn't needed to translate. He was wrapped up in his thoughts. Just moments before, he had held a newborn human being with all her life stretching out before her. It was a marvel. He still felt Kara's slight weight in his arms. Fervently, he prayed she would have a good life. If he could help her to that end, he would.

Ransom parted ways with the others feeling refreshed. Dared had left him with the assignment to practice the tenor parts on all the major Ballads and Teaching Songs, but he had wasted the past few days brooding. Now, he was ready to tackle the task. He set off toward the classroom, already humming to himself.


	11. Chapter 11

Hot air blasted Layla's face and arms as she heaved a pan of steaming tubers from the oven. She set it on a counter and grinned in satisfaction. She had seen this dish from a pile of dusty roots in a sink to the delicious culinary masterpiece sitting before her now. With help, she moved the huge pan to the line of food waiting to be dished out on platters and taken to the tables. The feast for Haligon was well underway, the first wave of platters already emptied and brought back for a second round. Whichever lucky table was reloaded with Layla's tubers was surely in for a treat.

"Winna, the tubers are done," she called to the headwoman where she was overseeing the roasting spits. "Is there anything else?"

Winna shook her head and waved Layla out. "No, you're free to go."

Layla spun in a little celebratory jig, careful not to bump any hot metal. Her contribution to the feast was finished. She doffed her apron and rolled down her sleeves, scowling at a stain on her front. There wasn't enough time to go back to her room to change. She had promised to sing with Dared and Ransom after her kitchen shift.

Layla slipped out from the kitchen, humming quick arpeggios to limber up her voice. The main hall was decked out for celebration, banners flying from the crossbeams in the ceiling. Some folk had already begun dancing, a few couples whirling in the open space below the head table. Ransom and Dared were playing a sprightly ballad on the corner of the dais while Roe sat at their customary table. They all were turned out in their best, boots shined and shirts crisp. Ransom's hair was even combed. A bit still stuck up in the back, but at least he had tried.

Layla headed toward the table, not wanting to interrupt the harpers' playing.

Roe stood as she approached, his eyes shining. "You look…" he trailed off, his hands moving automatically as he searched for the right word. "Good. You look good." He held her gaze with a peculiar little smile.

Layla tucked a loose curl behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious. "You look nice too, Roe."

He grinned and dug something out of his pocket. It crinkled softly as he placed it in her hand. "For you."

A folded paper flower rested on her palm, petals curling outward. "It's lovely!" she exclaimed. "Thank you."

Roe dipped his head in a slight nod. "I have," he began, "…tell you…" but the words seemed to escape him. With a self-deprecating sigh, he pulled out his slate and chalk. _I have something to tell you,_ he wrote. _Brenthon officially named me as his mentee today. I'm to work on the tapestry full-time._

"Roe, that's wonderful!" She flung her arms around him, but she couldn't help feeling the tiniest twinge of envy. "We should do something to celebrate!" she said, her hands on his shoulders.

Roe reddened and shook his head.

"Really," Layla pressed. "You deserve it! Come on. What would you like to do?"

Roe's eyes darted to the couples dancing on the floor and a smile crept over his face. He hopped to his feet and made an elaborate bow. "Dance with me?"

Layla felt herself blushing and grinning like a fool. She stood and echoed Roe's bow. "I would love to."

With that, Roe seized her hands and whirled her out onto the floor as a lively coastal melody lilted around them. Layla instinctively tried to move to the beat of the music. She made it a few bars before Roe pulled her out of step. He was dancing to a beat of his own. A wide grin split his face and his eyes shone in the bright glowlight of the hall. Layla tried to follow his lead, but she lost her balance. He caught her against his chest with a laugh.

Her face warmed as she looked up at him, a funny feeling fluttering in her gut. "Roe, I'm afraid you're a terrible dancer," she said. He only looked at her with the same peculiar smile and spun her around.

All too soon, the song came to a close. Applause broke out around the hall. Around them, couples broke up and began filtering back to their tables. Roe, on the other hand, kept dancing.

"The song's over, Roe," Layla said, tugging on his sleeve to get his attention. "Everyone else has stopped."

Roe shrugged, as if to say, "So?" and twirled her around again as the sounds of conversation and feasting swelled. Layla reminded herself that her partner was deaf. He didn't dance because music was playing. He danced simply because he wanted to. She let go of her inhibitions and let him lead her around the floor.

The dancing floor was empty and Layla was breathless by the time Roe had his fill. He bent in a formal bow, winking. Following his cue, Layla curtseyed and took his arm. They walked primly back to the dais like a pair of stuffy old courtiers.

"You two are more entertaining than a whole barrel of harpers," Dared said as they approached, his blue eyes twinkling in amusement. "You can take the floor for the rest of the evening. Ransom and I will hang up our harps and relax."

"Have fun out there?" Ransom asked, signing as well for Roe's benefit.

Roe grinned and signed something back, eliciting a laugh from his brother.

"What?" Layla said. She couldn't help feeling slightly piqued whenever the boys left her out.

"Roe said you dance like moonlight on night-blooming blossoms," Ransom said, clasping his hands and sighing like a lovestruck sod.

Roe punched him in the shoulder.

"Ow! I need that arm to play!"

"Speaking of which, I guess I should join you. Thanks for the dance, Roe."

Roe lifted her hand to his lips and bowed. She knew it was still part of his gallant act, but she couldn't help blushing. Her face was still hot as she pulled up an empty stool to Ransom's right. Ransom grinned smugly at her as she took her seat.

"What?" she asked.

He snickered to himself. "Nothing."

"I'm glad you could join us, Layla," Dared said, leaning over his gitar toward them.

Layla winked cheekily. "Someone's got to make you all easier on the eyes. This one's not helping you much." She jerked her thumb at Ransom, who scowled. "See what I mean?"

Dared shook his head, chuckling. "Save some of your wit and Ransom's dignity for later. Let's get started."

Ransom adjusted the hand drum between his knees and Layla straightened up. For all the times she had sung with Dared, her heart still thudded whenever she looked out over the crowded dining hall. She took a deep breath to settle herself.

Dared named an old mountain tune and strummed the jaunty opening chords. Ransom's hands danced over the drumhead as skillfully as if both were still whole. Layla added her voice to the mix, her pulse keeping beat with the music. The exhilaration of performing with talented musicians flooded her body and she poured her heart into the song as it filled the hall to the rafters.

Five songs later, the three of them left their stools and returned to the table where Roe waited. The harpers would take a short break to eat before resuming the music again. Layla poured them all mugs of klah and Roe dished out hot greens and tubers.

"You really don't sing half bad, Ransom," Layla said, passing him a mug. "You never told me you could sing."

"You never asked," he answered. "Where are Miyra and Barrak?"

"At their cot," Dared replied. "Kara's too small yet to bring Holdside. I wish they could be here. I still haven't seen the baby."

"We should drink a toast," Layla said, struck by sudden inspiration. "To Miyra, Barrak, and little Kara."

"With what, klah?" Ransom gestured to the porcelain jug on the table.

"Of course not!" Layla lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I know where the Benden white's stored in the wine cellar. Surely the Hold can spare enough for three glasses."

"Make that four," Dared said, leaning in on their conversation with a wink.

Layla turned to him in genuine surprise. "What? Harper Dared volunteering to drink wine? I thought you hated it."

"I don't choose to drink it, but I must say a white Benden is very tempting. And what kind of man would I be if I didn't join in toasting the birth of our friends' beautiful first daughter?"

"That settles it," Layla declared, standing. "I'll get the wine and come back before you have to play again."

Roe stood as well, motioning between them and then in the direction of the kitchens, a question clear on his face. Layla understood before Ransom had a chance to translate.

"No, you don't need to come, Roe. If someone saw you going to the cellars, they'd get suspicious. I'll be just a few minutes. Don't let these harpers get out of hand while I'm gone." She skipped down from the dais and cut through the merrymaking towards the kitchen doors.

It was cool and quiet when Layla finally made it to the hallway, a welcome change to the bustle of the steam-filled kitchen. Her feet confidently traced the path down to the wine cellar, echoing in the empty passageway. For once, she was grateful for all the errands Winna sent her on. She would never know her way around the store rooms of the Hold otherwise.

A residual chill clung to the stone in the lower passageway below the cold rooms. The door to the wine cellar hid in a recessed alcove. Layla pushed it open and stepped inside. A glowbasket sat at the top of the steps leading down to the racks of barrels, but she left it lidded. The glowlight leaking in through the open doorway was enough to see by. She wouldn't be long.

* * *

Ransom was already on his second plate when Roe leaned over and caught his attention.

_Can I ask you something? _he signed.

Ransom nodded, wiping his mouth on the back of wrist. For Miyra's sake, he saved his sleeves.

Roe shot a quick look at the kitchen doors before beginning to sign, _What happened the day father left? Why did you run away from everyone?_

Ransom slowly set his fork down. He had hoped Roe wouldn't bring that topic up. For the past few days he had successfully avoided it, but he and his brother were too close to hide much for long. _It's a long story,_ he hedged.

Roe arched his eyebrow expectantly. He wasn't fooled.

Ransom set his teeth and sat forward. _Dared told me some things that were hard to hear._

_About what?_ Roe prompted.

Ransom took a deep breath. _Father. And my mother._ He looked down at his hands, but he still caught Roe's surprised reaction in the edge of his vision. _I'm sorry Roe, but I'm not ready to say more._

Roe nodded slowly. _I understand._

_I promise I'll tell you when I'm ready._

_I know you will,_ his brother signed, giving him a lopsided smile. He looked anxiously over at the kitchen doors for the second time.

_What are you looking for?_ Ransom asked, relieved to have that weight off his mind.

_Layla's been gone a long time,_ Roe signed, an uncharacteristic frown creasing his forehead.

_She probably just got distracted,_ Ransom replied with a shrug.

His brother shook his head. _Something's wrong. We should look for her._

_You worry too much. _Ransom helped himself to a forkful of tubers. "What could possibly have happened to her?" he added aloud.

"Don't know," Roe replied. _I just have a bad feeling._

"I know you like the girl, but I think you're overreacting."

Roe stared at his plate, prodding his limp greens.

"You're really worried about her?"

Roe nodded, his mouth pressed into a thin line. _I don't know why. I just am._

"Maybe you're right. Maybe we should look for her." Ransom checked over his shoulder. Dared had occupied Daxel's vacated seat at the head table and was deep in conversation. "It looks like Dared doesn't need me right now." Ransom pushed his plate away and stood. "Come on. It might be useful to do some exploring."

The brothers left their table and followed Layla's previous path through the hall. They ducked around drudges carrying jugs of wine and steaming klah and into the kitchen. Hot air rushed into Ransom's face. Clanging pans and running water clamored in his ears.

"What are you boys doing in here?" a flushed woman asked crossly from behind a cauldron of murky water.

"Looking for someone," Ransom said quickly and pulled Roe past her. "We won't be long."

"You're not supposed to be in here!" the woman shouted after them.

"Ransom!"

He winced, fearing for a second that they had been caught. Then he saw Gabrien waving him down from a narrow alcove, a bowl of soup in one hand. Ransom grinned and waded his way toward him.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked, once they were close enough to speak normally over the kitchen racket. The guard looked completely out of place in his black tunic. He was hunching his broad shoulders close to his neck, as if trying to take up less room.

"I asked one o' my pals to take the end of my watch shift. Did I miss your music?"

"No, I'm just taking a break to look for a friend. We'll start up again in a few minutes or so." From the corner of his eye, Ransom spotted Winna headed in their direction, a dangerous look on her face. "We have to go! See you later, Gabrien."

"Hope you find your friend!" the guard called to their departing backs. Ransom and Roe barely escaped the headwoman, dodging around an empty baking rack and high-tailing it out of the kitchens.

"That was close," Ransom panted once they were out of Winna's beady sight. He straightened and looked up and down the empty hallway. _Do you know which way she might have gone?_

_Your guess is as good as mine._

Ransom's answer was to lick his finger and hold it in the air as if to catch the wind. Rolling his eyes, Roe pushed past him and headed down towards the lower levels. Ransom hurried to catch up. The air grew steadily cooler as they walked. It seemed like a good sign.

Ransom nudged his brother. _So, Roe. What are you going to do about Layla?_

_What, once we find her?_

_No. I mean, you obviously like her. _Roe didn't say anything in response. Ransom interpreted his silence as an encouragement to go on. _So what are you going to do about it?_

_What should I do about it?_

Ransom held his hands out in a shrug. _You're the one who flirts with girls all the time. Why are you asking me?_

_I don't know. Layla's not just any girl. She's different._ He ran a hand through his hair and sighed._ I don't know what to do._

_You could tell her how you feel._

Roe gave him an annoyed look. _I can't do that. What if she doesn't feel the same?_ His eyes lingered askance on the younger boy.

Ransom snorted. _She feels the same, all right._

_Has she told you?_

_No._

_How do you know then?_

_I have eyes. She lights up like a fresh glow whenever you're around._

For a few steps, Roe didn't sign anything. He looked up with a sheepish expression on his face. _I thought she might like you._

Ransom nearly choked in surprise. _What?_

_You're always laughing together._

_At my expense. If you could hear, you'd know I'm always the butt of her jokes. The girl is merciless._ Ransom pressed his hand to his heart in mock pain.

A small smile turned up the corners of Roe's mouth. _Poor Ransom. Did the mean girl hurt your feelings?_

_You have no idea._

They descended a short set of steps and turned the corner to see Layla stepping unsteadily from an alcove.

"There you are!" Ransom called, nudging Roe and fighting back a grin. "We've been looking for you." It was a good thing he had decided to sign their conversation instead of speaking aloud. Who knew how far voices carried down the hallways?

Layla started at his voice, looking wildly in their direction. The girl's eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. Moisture and dust streaked her pale face. Roe was already at her side before Ransom realized something was strange. She shrank away from them, breathing raggedly.

"Are you all right?" Ransom asked anxiously. "What happened?"

Layla shook her head, her hair straggling from its pins and looking even wilder than normal. "I need to go," she said in a tight voice, "I need to go to Levine."

Roe touched her chin and she jerked violently away, her whole body beginning to shake. "Who did this?" he asked, raising icy blue eyes to his brother. Ransom saw it then, the blotchy red mark on her cheek. His breath came harder as anger tightened around his lungs. He had been hit in the face often enough to recognize the signs.

Layla only shook her head more violently. "I need to go to Levine!" A sob escaped her trembling lips.

"All right," Ransom said, stepping to her other side. "We'll take you to her." He caught Roe's eye and jerked his head back in the direction they had come. "She's probably at Miyra's. Come on, Layla." He held out his hand to her. After a moment's hesitation, she took it. Her fingers were clammy and cold. "You're going to be all right," he said, squeezing her hand in reassurance.

She nodded, biting her lip to keep from crying.

"Let's go, Roe." Holding tight to Layla's icy hand, Ransom hurried down the passageway, trying to fight the sinking feeling that everything was only going to get worse.

Layla was crying silently into Roe's shoulder when they finally arrived at Miyra and Barrak's cothold. He held her upright with an arm around her waist, repeating "It will be okay," to her over and over.

Ransom winced as he knocked on the door, hoping he wouldn't wake Miyra or the baby. Behind him, Roe's soothing litany continued, punctuated every so often by a sob from Layla. Ransom knocked again, louder this time.

Barrak opened the door, confusion and concern alternating on his face. "Ransom? What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Barrak, but is Levine here?" Ransom asked breathlessly. "Layla needs her."

"No, she left an hour ago. Is something wrong?" Barrak's brows rose as he noticed Layla's weeping. "What happened to Layla? Is she hurt?"

"I think so, but I don't know for certain. We couldn't get her to say what happened."

"Bring her inside. I'll fetch Levine." Barrack opened the door wide and stood back to let them in.

"Thank you," Ransom breathed, hurrying back to Layla's side. He helped Roe walk her into the warmly lit room while Barrak shoved his feet into boots. The cothold was still comforting, but it didn't seem to have any effect on the girl.

"Barrak?" Miyra peered out from the bedroom. "Ransom, Layla, Roe!" she exclaimed. "What's the matter? Is something wrong?" She shut the door behind her and hurried to them, barefoot and clad only in a nightdress.

"Something happened to Layla," Barrak replied. "I'm fetching Levine. I'll be back soon." He kissed Miyra on the cheek and stepped outside. The door closed firmly, shutting out the cold, dark night.

Miyra shephered them to the kitchen table, her face lined with worry. "Come and sit. What happened, dear?"

Layla shook her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. Pale and wide-eyed, Roe reached for her hand.

Miyra's keen eyes traveled over the girl, taking in the mark on her face, her disheveled hair and rumpled dress. "Let me get a cool cloth for your face."

Wet hiccups jolted Layla's body and interrupted her attempts to breathe normally. She leaned her head into Roe's shoulder. He carefully wrapped an arm around her and stroked her hair in an awkward attempt at comfort.

Ransom watched them, at a complete loss. He couldn't decide if he should say something or stay quiet. "Who hit you?" he blurted out.

Layla sat up, shrugging away from Roe's attentions. Her green eyes narrowed and Ransom wished he could sew his big mouth shut. "Daxel," she managed to get out between hiccups.

"Daxel?" Ransom repeated dumbly. His mind spun its wheels like an overturned cart, gaining no purchase and going nowhere. "How did it happen?" Ransom asked, still struggling to understand the unexpected turn of events. What quarrel could Lord Haligon's son have with a weaver apprentice?

"In the wine cellar," she said haltingly. "He came in soon after me."

"But why?"

Layla's face twisted and she held a hand to her mouth. Her shoulders shook with silent tears. Miyra returned with the compress, offering it to the girl with quiet encouragement.

At that moment, the cothold door opened. Levine burst in, her face pink from exertion, her short hair wild. She must have run from her room. Barrak was close behind her. At the sight of the journeywoman, Layla dissolved into sobs that shook her entire frame. Alarmed, Levine strode to her and wrapped her in an embrace.

"I'm here, Layla. I'm here." Levine murmured into her hair.

Ransom could barely make out what Layla was saying through her tears. _"He hurt me, he hurt me, he hurt me."_

Levine shot Miyra a significant look over Layla's head.

The midwife's face went grim. "Let's go into the other room. Barrak?"

The big man was already at the bedroom. "Don't worry, Miyra. I'll look after Kara."

Roe helped Levine get Layla to her feet. The journeywoman held the weeping girl close and motioned Roe back to his seat. "I'll take her from here," she said with a smile that was just reflex. The dark worry in her eyes hung like a cloud over her face. Levine turned and half-carried Layla into the back room, shutting the door behind them.

"Thank you boys," Miyra said to Ransom and Roe as the flurry of activity left the room. "Layla's lucky to have friends like you." She cleared her throat. "But maybe it's time that you go."

"We don't mind staying," Ransom said quickly.

"I know. You're wonderful boys." Miyra squeezed his shoulder. "But I think Layla needs some privacy."

"Will she be all right?" Ransom asked, standing. Roe followed suit.

"She'll be fine," Miyra said firmly. "Levine and I will take care of her."

Ransom nodded his assent and followed his brother out, his mind still whirling.

_What happened?_ Roe asked once they were outside, breathing white clouds in the cold night air.

_They didn't say, but it was something bad,_ Ransom replied grimly.

_What should we do?_

_Wait, I guess._ A sudden shiver shook him violently. _Come on._ He clapped Roe's shoulder and turned back up the dark path._ Let's get back to the Hold. Dared will be looking for me._


	12. Chapter 12

She was in the wine cellar again, face pressed against the wall, his hands on her. She tried to scream, but her mouth wouldn't open. Her lips were glued together. He was crushing her. She couldn't breathe.

Layla woke to darkness with a start, sweaty and shaking from the last vestiges of the dream. She sat up and fumbled with the lid on the glowbasket next to her makeshift cot, finally flipping it open. Warm light flooded Miyra's work room, illuminating shelves of healing supplies and drying herbs hung overhead. She inhaled raggedly and rubbed her face to quell her tears. Her racing heart pounded loudly in her ears. She swung her legs over the side of the cot and stood. There were no windows to tell Layla if it was light outside, but it didn't matter. There was no way she could go back sleep.

After a minute of fruitless looking, Layla gave up on her shoes and wrapped her blanket around her shoulders. Miyra had lent her a nightdress, but it barely reached past the taller girl's knees. She didn't know what happened to her clothes.

Layla cracked the door and peeked into the main room. Levine was asleep at the kitchen table, her head pillowed on her arms. A blanket was draped loosely over her. The soft cadence of her breathing filled the early morning stillness. Miyra sat across from her, her back to the work room. At the sound of the door opening, she looked over her shoulder.

"Layla," she said with a weary smile. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. "You're awake. Are you all right?"

Layla stepped into the room and shook her head. "I can't sleep."

Miyra pulled a wrapping across her front and draped the end over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, dear. Do you need anything? I'm nearly finished feeding Kara now."

"No. I think I just want some fresh air." She crossed the room and paused in the front doorway. "Th-thank you Miyra. For everything."

Miyra swiveled around slowly. "Of course, Layla. I'll be here. If you need anything, just ask."

Layla quickly stepped outside before her composure shattered. The cold morning air was bracing and stung her lungs. She inhaled deeply anyways, sniffling as her nose began to run. The sky was the hopeful gray of predawn, readying for the arrival of a new day. Residual fog from the mountains clung to the eaves of the neighboring cotholds and hunkered over the fields. Layla closed the door behind her and set off slowly down the path. Her sweat cooled on her skin. She wrapped the blanket securely around her, her mind lapsing unbidden into memory.

_She hadn't heard him coming until he was at the top of the stairs. The cellar went suddenly dark as someone blocked the light from the hall. Then the door slammed shut, plunging the room into darkness. A round of hoarse cursing followed. She shrank back against a barrel rack, her hackles rising. With a soft thud, the glowbasket was kicked over. Glows clattered down the steps and across the floor, sputtering dimly at the abuse. The shaky light illuminated a tall figure swaying slightly by the door. His face was flushed and his richly embroidered tunic hung askew on his broad shoulders._

"_You there!" he said as he spotted her in the shadows. "Bring me a fresh wineskin." An empty sack slapped wetly to the floor. "No Benden, girl. Only the best Ruathan vintage to celebrate my father's return to health." His voice was bitter and rough._

"_Yes, my lord." She left the skin where it lay and quickly ducked between two racks of casks. She didn't want to stay alone in a room with the young lord for long. He made her nervous._

_She found the Ruathan barrels in the back of the cellar. Her fingers were shaking badly as she loosened the neck of a new wine skin and filled it with fresh wine from an already opened flagon. The dark liquid splashed on her hand and dripped onto her skirt. She tightened the wineskin and carried it back to where he was waiting._

Layla stopped at the bottom of the path. She sank down on a flat stone in the brown grass and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, wishing the memories away. Her mind refused to obey, scrolling relentlessly through the events of the previous evening. She gritted her teeth as hot tears dripped down her wrists.

_He had been leaning indolently against the wall at the base of the steps. All sign of his drunkenness was gone, replaced by cool indifference._

"_Your wine, my lord." Her palms were sweaty as she held the full wine skin out._

_He took the skin and tipped it back for a long draught. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with a sneer. "They call this shit wine?" He tossed the sack carelessly onto a step. The neck burst open, spilling blood-colored liquid onto the stone. "I can't stand this miserable Thread burrow of a Hold. Your name?" His face was shadowed, but she could feel his eyes on her._

"_I should return to the dining hall." She tried to step around him, but he moved to block her way._

"_I asked you for your name."_

"_Layla," she said. "Please let me pass."_

"_What for, Layla?" Her name became a taunt in his mouth._

"_I need to go."_

"_To the feast? No. We can celebrate my father's health right here." He gestured around the dim cellar. "There's wine a plenty. You're pretty enough." He reached a hand for her face and she jerked away._

"_Don't touch me!" she snapped._

"_Don't?" His voice went dangerously soft. "I'm the rightful lord of Ruatha. I'll do what I want."_

Layla blinked moisture from her eyes and stared around the the misty fields, hoping to focus on something to take her mind off what had happened. Glow- and candlelight shone from gaps in the shutters of the buildings back up the path. The cotholders were rousing and readying for work after a brief respite from the daily routine.

A figure materialized from the fog farther up the path, heading in her direction. Layla stiffened, her mouth suddenly dry. Her mind screamed at her to run, but her body was frozen. A few tense heartbeats passed as the figure grew clearer. The fog lifted slightly and she let out a sigh of relief. She recognized that gait, and as he got nearer, that hair that stuck up all on one side. It was Ransom who was trudging toward her, uninjured hand in his pocket. His boots were unlaced and his shirt hopelessly wrinkled.

"Hullo Layla," he said, coming to a stop five feet away.

"Hullo Ransom," she replied, wiping her eyes. She was suddenly aware that she was only wearing a too short nightdress. She cleared her throat, thankful her voice was steady. "You're up early."

"So are you. What are you doing way out here?"

Layla hunched her shoulders and pulled her blanket tighter around her. "I couldn't sleep. You too?"

Ransom nodded. He pulled off his jacket and offered it to her. "You look cold."

Layla took it gratefully and draped it over her knees, tucking her toes beneath the hem. She wrinkled her nose. "This smells like boy."

Ransom snorted. "It belongs to a boy. What else should it smell like?" He sat next to her, resting his arms on his knees. "Shouldn't you be at Miyra's?"

Layla shrugged and absently fingered the collar on Ransom's jacket. "I wanted some fresh air."

"You're not wearing any shoes."

"Well, your hair is all sticking up in the back," she shot back.

Bewildered, Ransom gave her a look as if she had sprouted wherry feathers.

"Would you stay with me?" she blurted, her throat suddenly tight. "I don't want to be alone right now."

Ransom nodded, his expression softening. "Of course. What happened to Levine and Miyra?"

"They're still at the cot. They're so good to me, but I don't want to take up more of their time." The two women had cared for her late into the night, soothing her tears and helping her get cleaned up. She had scrubbed and scrubbed at her skin, but she couldn't wash away the memory of his touch.

"I'm sure they don't mind. I don't either," he added.

"Thanks." Layla drew in a shuddering breath past her sniffles. She wiped her nose on the blanket and rested her chin on her knees with a sigh. She felt like a half-finished weaving torn from the loom. Parts of her were intact, patches of vibrant pattern still visible, but the in-betweens were filled with snarls and gaping holes. She felt better with Ransom sitting beside her. His presence was like an anchor, steadying her shaking hands as she tried to hold the slivers of herself together. It didn't fix things—pieces still slipped between her fingers, elusive as smoke—but it helped.

Ransom was watching her from the corner of his eye. "Last night," he began hesitantly after a moment, "what happened to you? Daxel didn't just hit you, did he?"

The composure she had so painstakingly assembled scattered and the floodwaters broke through. She shook her head slowly, lowering her face into Ransom's jacket.

_She had tried to run, but he was too fast. Fingers caught her wrist and yanked her arm around mercilessly. She yelled at the pain and kicked wildly, catching him in the shin. He swore. She wrested her arm away, but her freedom was short-lived. A back-handed slap across the face sent her stumbling. For an instant, her vision blackened and a ringing sound filled her ears. When she regained her wits, her face was pressed to the wall. He was behind her, twisting her arm up against her back. His grip on her wrist was like an iron vice._

"_You can make this easy for yourself, or you can make it difficult, but either way, I will get from you what I want," he hissed, his wine-laden breath hot on her ear._

"_Let me go!" she yelled, kicking fruitlessly at him with her heels._

_He wrenched her arm and she choked on her cries._

"_You forgot 'my lord'," he whispered._

_She struggled but he was too strong. He lifted her skirt and she could do nothing but scream as the tears streamed down her face._

Layla scrubbed her hands into her eyes, trying to block the nightmarish memory. "He—he forced himself on me. He raped me."

Ransom let out a low oath. His hand shook as he touched her arm. "Layla, I'm so sorry."

She turned and buried her face in his shoulder, crying uncontrollably. He held her as well as he could. The sky lightened overhead as she wept herself hoarse.

"We should have gone with you, Roe and I," Ransom said once she quieted. "We should have watched out for you!" His voice broke and he slammed a fist into the grass.

"It's not your fault," she whispered. "You brought me to Miyra and Levine."

"I'm going to beat Daxel to a pulp," Ransom said, his voice shaking with anger. "He's not going to get away with this."

"I don't want to talk about him right now."

"Don't you want justice?"

She lifted her head. "Yes, but I don't want to spend my time thinking about him."

Ransom's black eyes flashed and he dropped his arm from around her. For a moment, the distance between them seemed to yawn like a crevasse in the earth. Then he nodded in assent and looked at her with concern in his face. "Are you all right?"

"No, but I'll live, I guess. Sorry I cried on you," she sniffled. "I got your shirt wet."

He shrugged. "I'm a boy. I don't care about my clothes."

She managed a faint glimmer of a smile. "Tell me you at least wash them," she said, pulling at his sleeve. She wanted desperately to feel normal again. Life didn't seem quite so bad if she could tease someone. It was a tiny step towards putting herself back together.

"And risk being mobbed by amorous laundry women?"

"Please, you're not half as good looking as you think you are."

"Then I must be a real eyesore," he said glumly. "Roe inherited all the good looks in the family."

Layla bumped him with her shoulder. "I'm sure you're a sight for someone's sore eyes."

"Thank you Layla," he said. His mouth tilted in the sideways smirk he always wore when he was being sarcastic. "You make me feel so much better."

Layla's smile faded as the moment evaporated. She shivered, feeling herself slide back to holes and snarls. "Would you sing for me?" she asked, pulling his jacket back up over her knees.

"What? Now?"

Layla lifted a shoulder in a listless shrug. "My mother used to sing to me when something was wrong. It always made me feel better. Didn't your mother ever sing to you?"

"No. My mother died when I was born."

"Oh," Layla breathed. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Ransom pressed his lips together in a half-hearted smile. "It's okay." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I think I should tell you something."

Layla waited as he inhaled slowly. He didn't look at her as he spoke.

"My mother was raped before I was born. It was my father that did it. He was drunk and wanted comfort." His gaze met hers for the briefest moment. "That's how I came into the world." He fell silent, plucking loose threads from the wrappings on his left hand. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you that. It doesn't make anything better."

Layla laid her hand over his and squeezed his fingers. "Thank you for telling me. I'm sorry for your mother," she said quietly.

He lifted eyes that looked as lost and searching as she was. "I'm sorry it happened to you too."

Layla hugged her knees to her chest. Sitting with Ransom in the hour before dawn, she felt like a shadow of the carefree girl she was yesterday. But it was a tenuous feeling, sure to break with the day. The girl she was today needed more hands than she had to hold herself together. She couldn't imagine how she would face the demands of normal life. She felt as fragile as the morning mist, as vulnerable as an orphaned hatchling. "So what now?" she asked.

"Make that bastard Daxel pay," he growled. "But you don't want to talk about that." He blew out a breath and raked his fingers through his unruly hair. "I guess we just live. Breathe, cry, get angry. Do what you can to go on."

"You make it sound so easy," Layla said. It would take a long time to undo the tangles and stitch herself back together. Just thinking about it made her feel exhausted.

Ransom let out a humorless chuckle. "I wish it was. But it's not. It's really hard and awful."

"That's not very encouraging."

"It's the truth."

Layla frowned at him over her shoulder. "You're not very good at this."

His eyes narrowed in confusion. "At what?"

"Making a girl feel better."

"Well, sorry," he began hotly, "but that's not exactly a skill they teach in the Harper Hall."

Layla stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't needle you. You're a good friend."

He nodded after a moment. "Everything will be okay, Layla, in time." Despite the brave smile he gave her, a shadow of uncertainty colored his quiet voice.

"After all the really hard and awful?"

"I hope so. At least we don't have to do it alone, right?"

Emotion welled in her chest. She leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Thank you, Ransom."

He didn't respond. He didn't have to. They sat like that for a few moments until Layla broke the silence.

"So, how about that song?"

Ransom wrinkled his nose. "I was hoping you had forgotten that. I guess there's no getting out of it now. Let's see…" he let his breath out as he thought. After a moment, he began singing without preamble, his voice quiet and breathy in the still morning air. The song was a simple lullaby, no doubt something from his childhood. She closed her eyes and listened, the melody washing over her as the first rays of sunlight reached over the horizon.


	13. Chapter 13

If Ransom and Roe had invented signs to swear, Roe would have used all of them when he learned the truth. Ransom had to write it out because their language lacked the signs to express what had happened to Layla. They left Roe's workstation in the Crafthall, heading quickly up to the Hold. Ransom could sense the fury seething beneath his brother's skin from three feet away as they walked.

"Ho, Ransom!" called a familiar voice. Gabrien fell in step with them, his gap-toothed smile wide. "Did ye find your friend last night?"

Ransom nodded grimly.

Gabrien went on, oblivious to the apprentices' bleak mood. "I loved hearin' you play, though I wish it could've been for longer. You manage right well, even with a broken hand an' all. How'd that happen?"

"The same apprentices."

Gabrien's face darkened. "They aren't still givin' you trouble, are they?"

Ransom lifted his hand. "Not since this happened." He tried to smile. "I hear you taught my brother some things. I owe you thanks. Without that, he and I would have ended up a lot worse."

"It was nothin'. I'm sorry your hand got hurt."

Ransom's eyes widened as a sudden idea struck him. "Do you know a lot of self-defense, Gabrien?"

The guard shrugged. "I know a good bit. What kind are you talkin' about?"

"Something a young woman could use to escape unwanted attention."

Gabrien's eyebrows shot up. "Now that's a bit different from what I taught your brother, but I know a few useful tricks. Who has been botherin' this lady friend o' yours? I'd be happy to go give him a talk."

"It's complicated. We can talk about it later," Ransom hedged as they neared the top of the path. Daxel was loitering with a knot of Hold guards beneath the Hold gate. Anger flashed hotly through Ransom's insides. The sight of the young lord made him want to punch something. He forced himself to stop walking and take three deep breaths before he lost his head. As much as he relished the idea of tackling Daxel, he knew it would only land him in a world of trouble. Jumping a fellow apprentice was fairly stupid, but attacking the son of the Lord Holder unprovoked was nigh suicidal.

"Who's your lady friend, then?" Gabrien asked.

Ransom opened his mouth to answer, but he was distracted by movement beyond the guard's shoulder. Roe had walked up to the group of men and was tapping Daxel's shoulder. The young lord turned lazily, disdain stamped over his features. Roe cocked his fist.

"Roe, no!" Ransom yelled instinctively, but it was useless. Roe slammed his fist straight into Daxel's eye, dropping him to the ground. It was such a beautiful punch that Ransom might have celebrated, had two guards not immediately leaped on his brother and kicked his legs out from under him. Ransom let loose every curse he knew and hurled himself towards them.

Gabrien snatched him back and held him tight under one arm. "No, Ransom! You'll only get the both o' you into more trouble!"

"Let him go!" Ransom yelled over Gabrien's solid forearm. "He didn't mean it!"

The two guards had Roe on his knees, his arms wrenched behind his back.

Shrugging off the help of the third guard, Daxel stood with a liquid grace that sent Ransom's heart spiraling down to his knees. He spat, furious gaze latched on the weaver apprentice.

Roe stared murderously back at the young lord through the tangle of hair falling into his eyes. He didn't struggle against the two guards restraining him.

"Are you all right, my lord?" the third guard asked.

Daxel silenced him with a dismissive flick of his hand.

"What would you have us do with him?" the captain nodded to Roe.

Daxel squinted through his already swelling eye. "Were he a man," he said silkily, "I would demand satisfaction in a duel. As it is, he's not worth the time it would take to wash his blood from my blade." He straightened his tunic. "A sound lashing should suffice to remind the whelp of his rank."

"My lord," the captain objected, "we spare apprentices the lash unless a crime has been committed."

"Captain, you have a distressingly inadequate understanding of crime," Daxel said, voice dripping with disdain. "Insubordinate though your statement was, for your sake, I am prepared to dismiss it."

"But, my lord—"

The courtly mask of Daxel's face hardened. "By my Blood, you will do as I say."

After a pregnant pause, the captain nodded once, his features unreadable. "Yes, my lord."

"No! You can't do that!" Ransom pulled free of Gabrien's grasp, but he only made it a few steps before the guard seized him by the shirt collar and yanked him backwards.

"I'll deal with this," he said gruffly. "Keep quiet."

The two guards shoved Roe forward, their grip tight on his arms. Roe kept his stare fixed on Daxel as he was marched past. Gabrien fell in step with the captain, Ransom at his heels. The ground sloped downwards to the Hold barracks.

"Captain, you won't really whip the boy, will you?" Gabrien said quietly. "He's deaf. He might have been confused."

"He assaulted a son of the Hold," the captain replied brusquely.

"He's just a boy," Gabrien pressed. "Surely you could be lenient?"

"Do you want to join him at the post?" the captain snapped.

Gabrien went silent.

"You would be wise to remember your rank as well, soldier."

"Please, sir," Ransom pleaded, pushing past Gabrien. "He's my brother. You can't whip him!"

"Boy," the captain growled without looking at him, "I suggest you stand back and shut your mouth before you get you or your brother into more trouble."

Gabrien pulled Ransom back as the captain strode on ahead. "I'm sorry," Gabrien muttered. "There's nothing we can do."

Ransom felt like he had swallowed his heart.

"What happened?" Gabrien asked. "Why did he do it?"

Ransom related what had happened to Layla in a hoarse whisper, staring at his boots as they walked.

Gabrien was silent for a long while when Ransom was done. His knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sabre, the leather binding creaking as his fingers tightened. "Faranth, that poor girl," he said finally. "He's a brave one, your brother."

Ransom nodded wordlessly, unable to speak past his heart thudding in his throat. He followed the guards holding Roe, feeling suddenly numb.

The yard outside the Hold barracks was a dismal square of dust. A few bystanders gathered around the fringe, alerted by the commotion at the gate and lured in by the gossip spreading faster than wildfire. Daxel stood at a distance from the other watchers, flanked by two other Hold guards. At the sight of the young lord, Ransom's face heated with fury. He forced himself to look away and the blood drained from his face. A whipping post stood in the northeast corner of the yard, still lit by angled sunlight. Under Daxel's scrutiny, the guards moved with swift efficiency, stripping Roe to the waist and slapping his wrists into the manacles nailed into the blunt top of the post. The yard was silent. There was no ceremony, no pageantry. The captain accepted the coiled whip from a subordinate. With a flick of his wrist he let the oiled length of braided leather fall loose into the dust. The guard locking Roe's bonds pocketed the ring of keys and stepped to the side, leaving the boy alone at the post. Roe's thin back was pale in the harsh light, his arms drawn up above his head.

"How many?" Ransom forced the words past a dry knot in his throat.

"Insubordination's a dozen. That's just for the Hold guard, though." Gabrien's next words were cut off by the first whistle of the whip cutting through the air.

When it was done, Roe hung limply from his wrists, his sides heaving arrhythmically. Long red cuts crisscrossed his bloodied flesh from the nape of his neck to the waistband of his trousers.

The captain coiled half of the whip's length, letting the end dangle loose. Drops of Roe's blood flecked the dust. The bailiff stepped up to the post and unlocked Roe's wrists. Roe slumped to his knees as his arms were loosed, his face sliding down the wood post.

The punishment finished, guards and audience trickled away to low murmurs that had been held in for the duration of the whipping. Ransom had crossed the yard before he realized it, kneeling beside his brother in the dust. Roe's breathing was loud and harsh, sounding through raw vocal cords. Ransom's hands shook as he gently lifted his brother's shoulder. He swallowed hard and avoided looking at Roe's back. Gabrien hunkered down on his other side, pale and grim.

"Roe." Ransom touched his brother's face. His skin was clammy and hot. His eyes flickered open briefly and he inhaled laboriously, his normally expressive face pinched and drawn.

"We're taking you to Miyra," Ransom said hoarsely past his tight throat.

Gabrien shook his head. "He can't make it that far. He needs the Hold healer."

Ransom bit back an oath. "My old bunk with Dared. In the Harper's quarters."

The guard nodded in acknowledgment. They gingerly draped Roe's arms over their shoulders and stood slowly. Roe groaned, too weak to scream.

Ransom winced and tears wet his cheeks. "Hold on, Roe," he whispered. Carefully supporting Roe between them, Gabrien and Ransom made their slow, shuffling way back to the Hold.

It was hours later when the Hold healer finished stitching up Roe's back and left him, heavily dosed, lying face down in the Harper's spare room. The wounded boy nearly filled the space, one foot hanging off the end of the cot. Ransom sat on the cot across from him, weary and numb. He had spent his anger with Daxel while Roe's wounds were being dressed, exhausting his colorful supply of profanities and leaving his other hand bandaged after he punched a wall.

Dared leaned against the doorframe, his eyes shut tight. Gabrien had had to return to his guard duty, leaving the two harpers alone.

"I should have stopped him," Ransom whispered. "I should have done something."

_Keep each other safe_, Kesandra had told them when they left for Southern Boll. _Stay out of trouble and watch out for your brother._

How he had failed.

"Enough, Ransom," Dared said curtly. "You couldn't have known that Roe would attack Daxel. No one would guess that." He rubbed his face with both hands.

"What was he thinking?" Ransom continued. "He almost got himself killed!" His stomach dropped at the thought.

"Frankly, I'm disappointed he beat me to it. What I would have given to see the look on that bastard's face—forgive me Ransom—when Roe laid into him."

Ransom waved the apology away.

Dared chuckled humorlessly. "Your brother's full of surprises."

"It's my fault," Ransom said. "Roe would never hurt someone. If I weren't always fighting and getting into trouble, he—"

"Ransom, enough!" Dared said sternly. "What Roe did is not your fault. Furthermore, Daxel had no right to have him whipped. Blood of the Hold or not, he overstepped his bounds." He rubbed his eyes with an exasperated sigh. "Where's a skin of wine when you need it?"

"I thought you didn't drink."

"Not for me, for you."

"I wouldn't drink anyways." Ransom fingered the linen bandaging his hand.

"Come, Roe is sleeping. We can speak in the other room." Dared limped to him and tapped his shoulder. "Get up." Ransom obeyed numbly and let the Harper lead him into the main room. He sat down in a straight backed chair. The Harper checked the contents of a ceramic jug on his worktable.

"Hmm, cold. No matter, it was a fair enough brew." He poured the klah into two mugs and offered one to Ransom. Ransom wrapped his hands around his mug and stared into the dark liquid. Dared sat on a stool across from him and lifted his left trouser leg. Dark wood met scarred flesh halfway up his shin. The leather straps securing his false leg wrapped around the stump of his shin and looped over his knee. Ransom watched with morbid fascination as Dared unbuckled the fastenings and slid the wooden leg off. He bent down and massaged his stump with a low exhalation.

"How did that happen?" Ransom asked in a hushed voice.

Dared lifted his head, blue eyes distant. "When I lost Seth." He fell silent, knuckles whitening around his bad leg.

Feeling self-conscious, Ransom sipped his klah. The bitter brew soured in his throat and he coughed. Maybe he shouldn't have brought it up.

Dared's voice was quiet and measured when he broke the silence. "It was six Turns ago, over Ruatha. A hellish day to fight Fall. High winds whipped the Threads into unpredictable knots and clumps. Seth went _between_ to dodge a bunch of Threads. We mistimed our jump back and got caught broadside in one of my wingmates' flame. Seth was burned all down one wing and across his side. Despite his injuries, we made it back to the Weyr. He died a day later." Dared lifted the mug to his lips, his hand quivering. "Phosphine poisoning. They saved me by cutting off my burned leg, but Seth's wounds were too extensive." He trailed off into silence and his red-rimmed eyes stared hollowly at the floor.

"Did you ever wish you had died with your dragon?" Ransom asked before he realized how it would sound. He backpedaled quickly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked that."

"No, it's a fair question," Dared said. "Sometimes, surviving is more of a curse than a blessing. For a long time after I lost Seth, I didn't want to live. But I was too cowardly to die." He fixed Ransom with a direct stare. "Have you ever been _between_? No? It's nothingness. There's no sound, no light, no feeling, no air. Nothing but emptiness and cold. Losing Seth was like being trapped _between._"

"How did you get out of it?" Ransom asked.

A faint smile flickered quickly over Dared's face. "Music. Your father saved me. We hadn't spoken for Turns, but he came to see me at the Weyr when he heard what happened. He continued to visit when I was moved here. He got me to play again, got me to sit up and eat, and eventually walk. I owe him my life. He is a good man, Ransom. I hope you'll be able to see that someday."

Ransom snorted softly. "It'll take a long time."

The Harper's eyes were downcast. "I'm sorry, Ransom. For both of you."

Ransom was quiet for a while, then finally voiced the question that had been plaguing him for days. "Why did he get away with what he did all those Turns ago?"

"You mean what he did to your mother?"

"Yes. How could she let him get away with it?"

Dared spread his long hands in a helpless gesture. "She forgave him. He was nearly mad from remorse. She believed his guilt was punishment enough. When she wrote me, I was ready to take Seth to the Harper Hall and kill your father then and there, but she begged me to forgive him as well."

"Did you?"

"It took a long time. We didn't speak for nine Turns. After your mother died, I refused to go back to the Harper Hall for Weyrsinger training. I visited Kesandra once when you were very young, but I didn't see your father until after I lost Seth. It was when he was saving my life that I was finally able to forgive him. Now we're good friends once again." A shadow crossed over Dared's face. "I still miss your mother, though. I'm sorry you never knew her."

"Can you tell me more about her?"

Dared attempted a smile. "She did everything with fierce determination. She used to badger me for gitar lessons and practice her fingers raw. But her real gift was her voice. She hated singing in front of people, but when she was working, or as her mind wandered, she poured out beautiful melodies."

As Ransom listened, he tried to imagine his mother living, singing, playing. He had no reference for her appearance except his own face. His mind's eye was too weak to hold more than echoes of an image, a smudge of dark hair, brown hands flickering over gitar strings, a mouth like his breaking into a smile. He imagined a young, unscarred Dared with her, happy and whole.

"Do you wish you had married her?"

Dared's smile tilted. "So many questions about wishing. Do you wish a lot of things, Ransom?"

"How could I not? I wish things were different. I wish my mother was alive. I wish my father wasn't ashamed of us. I wish none of this had happened." He gestured to the other room where Roe was unconscious.

"Don't waste yourself on wishes, Ransom. Life can deal you some hard blows, but if you turn around and only look back, you'll miss everything to come, the good and the bad."

Ransom managed a faint smile. "You're quite the fount of profundity."

"You learned a new word."

"I should have something to show for all those hours of copying old hides."

Dared slapped his knee in enthusiasm. "I'll make a proper harper out of you yet!"

A soft groan interrupted their banter. Ransom sprang to his feet. "Roe!"

Roe was stirring feebly on his cot. His color was returning, but his stitches still oozed, red stains leaking through the bandages on his back.

"Roe." Ransom knelt beside his head. "How are you feeling?"

Roe signed shakily with one hand. _Never better._ He winced as the motion pulled his back.

Ransom let out a relieved breath. "You should be. We could hear you snoring from the other room."

Roe smirked. He bent his elbows and made to push himself up.

"What are you doing? Stop that, you have to rest."

Ransom's words were fruitless as Roe's eyes were closed. The older boy's face contorted in pain and he flopped back onto the bed, face first.

A dull thumping sound came from the other room. Dared hopped into the doorway, gripping the lintel to hold himself upright.

"Lose your leg?" Ransom asked.

"Couldn't be bothered to put it back on." Dared flapped a hand in dismissal. "Does he need anything?"

Ransom repeated the Harper's question in his brother's line of vision.

"A…new…body," Roe slurred.

"If anyone's up for that order, it's me," Dared said wryly. "You're still young, Roe. Skin grows back, but after six Turns, there's still no sign that my leg will do the same."

Roe's hand gripped his brother's sleeve. He signed one word, _Daxel?_

"He'll be brought to justice," Ransom assured him, gripping his shoulder. His brother's eyes flickered shut, signaling the end to the conversation. Suddenly somber, Ransom sat back on his heels. "Daxel won't get away with any of this, will he, Dared?"

The Harper shook his head. "Never. Not for Layla, nor for Roe." His blue eyes were steely and cold. "Excuse me, Ransom. I believe it's time I broadened my application of the Harper craft."

Ransom scrambled to his feet. "What are you going to do?"

A grim, humorless smile spread across Dared's lips.


	14. Chapter 14

"You did _what_?" Miyra was livid on the morning after Roe's whipping, her dark hair flying loose from her braid. She looked smaller than ever without her pregnant belly, but she was still a force to be reckoned with. Her eyes flashed and the air in Dared's quarters seemed to crackle around her.

Dared smirked shamelessly, slouching in his chair with his head pillowed in his hands. "I had no choice."

"Don't you dare pull that with me again!"

Dared winced as the midwife hit a pitch more suited to firelizards. He straightened into a humbler pose. "I told you. I confronted him before Haligon and Aegellan. He refused to acknowledge what he had done. So I challenged him."

"To a _duel_? Are you mad?" Red spots colored Miyra's cheeks and tendons stood out in her neck like harp strings. "What chance has a one-legged harper against a fit man half his age?"

"I'll have you know that Daxel is only ten Turns younger than me."

"Don't change the subject!" Miyra paced furiously from one end of the room to the other. "You can't duel him! Haligon and Aegellan can't allow it!"

"They must. Concerns of honor and justice can't make amends for rank or stature. Although I hope they can get Daxel to confess," Dared said sheepishly. "If they don't succeed in three days, well…" He held out his hands like a prisoner offering his wrists to manacles.

"Why would you do this, Dared?"

"Do you really need to ask?" Dared stood, his knees popping audibly.

Miyra's face crumpled. "Why you, though? Why did you have to be a hero?" She gripped the front of his tunic with both hands and buried her face in his chest.

Dared put his hands on Miyra's shoulders and pushed her gently upright. "I'm not. I'm just a broken old harper trying to do the right thing."

She glared at him, her face contorted in a visible effort to hold back tears. "You're going to get yourself killed. I didn't help nurse you back to life six Turns ago only to see you die on some Hold brat's blade."

He smiled sadly, which only made her scowl fiercer. "I can't revoke my challenge, Miyra. This was my choice, and I will carry it out to whatever end awaits."

Miyra swiped moisture from her eyes and shook her head. "You _fool._ You've sung too many romantic ballads of heroic exploits."

Dared held up his hands. "Take that up with the Masterharper, not me. Where did you leave Kara?" he asked, steering the conversation into safer territory.

"At the cot with Layla and the boys."

"So that's where Roe went. Should he be up and about already?"

Miyra rolled her eyes. "You harpers refuse to sit still long enough to be properly healed."

"Roe's not a harper."

"He's harper-bred."

"True. Thank goodness for numbweed, eh?"

Miyra crossed her arms with a huff. "Does more harm than good sometimes."

Dared chuckled at the midwife's ire. "Life goes on, Miyra. If pain can be numbed, it's all for the better."

"Pain is a sign that something's wrong. Shutting it off will do nothing if you don't fix the problem that caused it in the first place."

Dared shrugged. "Most things take a long time to fix. In the meantime, it's nice to have reprieve." He lowered himself back into his chair with a groan. "Forgive me, Miyra, but I should return to my work."

The midwife's expression softened. "Please, take care of yourself, Dared. I don't want to lose you."

"Who says you will?" Dared gave her a faint grin before bending over the parchments on his work table.

* * *

Roe's back looked like a piece of embroidery done by a blind madman. Haphazard lines of knotted thread slashed across his pale skin. The edges of his cuts were still red and puffy, but at least they no longer bled. He sat shirtless at Miyra's kitchen table as Layla finished slathering numbweed all over his cuts. Ransom knelt by Kara's cradle at the end of the table. The baby was awake, her crossed eyes open and one fist waving. The other was wrapped around Ransom's little finger, her grip surprisingly strong.

"I can't believe you, Roe," Layla scolded him for the third time that afternoon. "I can't believe you would do such a stupid thing! You're even more of a royal idiot than Ransom! You're the king of idiots, a glow so dead it wasn't ever alive!"

"Do you want me to translate all of this?" Ransom asked. "Because he won't get anything you're saying."

Layla shook the lid of the numbweed jar at him. "If Kara wasn't with you right now…" She covered the numbweed and wiped her hands on a rag.

Roe turned around, holding his arms and torso as still as he could. He lowered his legs over the other side of the bench and beamed up at Layla. "Thank you."

"You're an idiot." She shook her curls at him.

"Are you…all right?"

Pain flickered briefly behind Layla's green eyes before she blinked it away. A small reminder that all was not as well as it seemed. "My skin's all in one piece, which is more than I can say for you," she said tartly, and the veneer of normalcy was in place again.

"Did you get any sleep last night, Layla?" Ransom asked, probing if she would accept his concern.

"Not after hearing what your fool of a brother got himself into."

Ransom retreated. Her armor was up and there was no getting past it. After their foggy morning meeting in the fields, Layla had put up an aggressively normal face, teasing and talking as she always did. The only marked difference in her demeanor was that she avoided going to the Hold.

"What was he thinking, Ransom? That he'd impress me with his dashing chivalry?"

"He may be my brother, but I can't read his mind."

She turned her attention to Roe and crossed her arms. "Well, whatever it was, I'll have you know that I'm not impressed."

Roe was unaffected by her baleful glare. He reached up and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. His hand lingered by the side of her face, his eyes searching hers. Her scowl softened, and for a moment it seemed that she would lean into his hand. Instead, she brushed it away, tilted his chin upwards, and kissed him hard.

Ransom nearly fell over. A surprised laugh got stuck in his throat and he choked. The other two didn't notice him coughing; they had other concerns.

Layla pulled away from the kiss with a soft sigh and opened her eyes. Roe stared dazedly at her, his face flushed and his mouth hanging slightly open.

Ransom carefully disentangled his finger from Kara's grip and stood. "Well, I'm going to go. Back to the classroom to practice. Forgot a score Dared told me to work on."

"Not so fast," Layla said, her manner brisk and businesslike once again. "I need your help getting him wrapped up again." She tipped Roe's mouth closed and went into the other room to fetch clean bandages.

Breaking into a grin, Ransom leaned across the table to punch his brother's shoulder. _It's about time! How was it?_

Roe let out a breath and beamed. He pumped an ecstatic fist in the air. The action pulled on his stitches and he winced, despite the numbweed. Layla walked back into the room and the boys scrambled into nonchalant slouches.

"You found the bandages?" Ransom asked as he examined the linen wrapping his splinted fingers with affected interest.

"What do you think I was looking for, bubbly pies?" Layla dropped a basket of bandages on the table. "Turn around, will you Roe?"

Roe obeyed. He lifted his arms and rested his hands on his head. Ransom laid squares of linen over the cuts and Layla secured them in place with long strips of cloth wound around Roe's torso. They made quick work of it and Roe was gingerly shrugging into his shirt within a few minutes.

Layla stood over him, shaking her head. "What are we going to do with you?" she sighed.

Roe grinned foolishly at her. She snorted and smacked the back of his head.

"Is that really how you treat your patients, Layla?" Miyra pushed the door to the cot open and stepped inside. The midwife moved as if her body were a stranger's. She had to get used to not being pregnant again. "Roe, are you surviving her abuse?"

He nodded, blushing pink again.

"How was Kara?" Miyra went to the cradle and lifted her baby out.

"She didn't cry once," Ransom said.

"Not once in an entire hour?" Miyra touched her daughter's nose. "My Kara, I'm so proud of you. Thank you all for watching her."

"I will watch her anytime," Layla said. "Preferably without these two. They know nothing about babies." She rolled her eyes.

"That's not true. We know plenty," Ransom said with a wink. "Hold her head-side up and don't shake her when she cries."

"My, you're practically ready to have one of your own," Miyra said with an ironic snort. "Actually, Ransom, I need help in one of your other areas of expertise."

"What do you need?" Ransom hopped upright.

As Miyra stepped closer, Ransom saw the lines of weariness drawn into her face. "I need you to send a drum message for me," she said. "To your father."


	15. Chapter 15

Moregan was just leaving a meeting with the Benden Weyrleaders when the message reached him. A red-faced weyrling jogged up to them as they lingered in the stone hallway.

"Excuse me, Weyrleaders," he puffed, scrawny chest heaving. "Masterharper, this message just arrived, from Ruatha Hold."

Moregan took the proffered piece of parchment. "Ruatha? I was just there last sevenday. Thank you, young rider." He unfolded the paper and skimmed the Weyr drummer's blocky writing. His eyes widened and he read the message again, the parchment nearly tearing in his grip.

The Benden Weyrwoman, a tall, redhaired woman of athletic build, glanced at her partner. He stood a full head shorter, but still exuded an air of undeniable authority. "Is something wrong, Moregan?" she asked.

Moregan pocketed the message and ran a hand through his hair. It was a nervous habit he had from his journeyman days. "I'm afraid I must cut our time short. Forgive me, I must go to Ruatha on grave personal matters."

"Of course, Moregan," the Weyrwoman said. "I'll have N'thon get geared up to take you." Her eyes went slightly out of focus as she communicated with her queen.

"My thanks."

"What happened?" the Weyrleader asked.

"One of my best harpers intends to duel one of the Ruathan lords tomorrow."

The Weyrleader's brows vaulted to his hairline. "I didn't realize harpers were fighting men."

"We're not," Moregan said. "At least, we don't fight with blades."

"We shan't keep you, Moregan," the Weyrwoman said and gestured down the hall. "N'thon will be ready in the time it takes us to walk to the Bowl."

Moregan gave her a helpless smile. "I am truly grateful to you and your riders, Weyrleaders. I don't know what we would do without you."

The Weyrleader showed his teeth in a joyless grimace. "Let's hope we'll never have to find out."

Thanks to the wonder of dragonwings, Moregan was stepping onto Ruathan soil less than an hour later. He blinked in the morning sunlight; it was mid-afternoon in Benden, half a continent away.

"I don't think anyone knew we were coming," N'thon commented, surveying the Hold with his riding helmet under his arm. Moregan shaded his eyes. Guards on the fire heights scrambled and shouted orders to their underlings in the courtyard below. Scattered holdfolk paused in their duties to gape at the brown dragon and the two men on the gravel path.

"No, it was not the Lord Holders who summoned me," Moregan said. "Thank you, N'thon."

The young rider grinned. "It's a pleasure, Masterharper. Without Thread to fight, life in the Weyr can be dull as a rock. I enjoy any chance I have to get out."

Moregan smiled back, but he couldn't share the rider's enthusiasm. His hand strayed to his pocket where the drum message burned a hole in his trousers. He hadn't mentioned the first half of the correspondence to the Weyrleaders, the part that said his son had been flogged. Another reminder of his failure. Never in all his years as Masterharper had one of his harpers been sentenced to the lash. Yet the past few days had seen his son at the whipping post and his best harper on the verge of armed combat. Had they both gone mad? Was there something in Ruatha's water?

Aegellan emerged from the Hold gate and descended the path. He strode with stiff urgency. Moregan raked his fingers through his hair again. This would not be a pleasant affair.

"Masterharper, I assume you're here about Harper Dared," Agellan said with remarkable calm. Just the twitch of his fingers against his thigh belied his inner anxiety. "Lord Haligon and I—"

Moregan held up a hand. "Forgive me, my lord Aegellan. I understand that we have several urgent matters to resolve, but right now, I cannot be concerned with diplomacy and politics. Before we begin, may I first see my son?"

Aegellan's dark eyes flickered. Tension left his shoulders and he nodded, emotion coloring his high cheekbones. "Of course Masterharper," he said after a moment. "You should certainly do that."

The two men wasted no time exchanging pleasantries. Once lodging for N'thon and his brown had been arranged—"I will be your escort for as long as you need me," the young rider had said—Moregan took his leave.

No one hailed Moregan as he entered the Hold. He wasn't wearing his Master's badge or craft colors. The anonymity was relieving, giving him precious time to process the flood of thoughts overwhelming his mind. Days of hopping from Hall to Weyr to Hold and back had left him feeling thinner than an overscraped hide. He ached for a moment to himself with no Holders, Craftsmen, or riders demanding his attention. His time at Ruatha surely would be more ordeal than reprieve, but the quiet walk between the gate and the Harper's door was enough to brace him for what would come next.

Dared's door was half-open and the sound of rustling parchment flowed into the hallway. Moregan shouldered his way into the room. "Dared, I don't know if you've finally lost it, but can you at least tell me where I can find my son?"

Instead of his old friend, a dark boy sat at the worktable. His head snapped up and he stiffened on his stool.

"Ransom." Moregan stopped at the threshold. He took in his son's broadening shoulders, the new muscles filling his shirtsleeves, the sleeves that used to flap loosely around a boy's reedy arms. He had seen Ransom just in the last sevenday, but not for long enough to notice he had grown. "You're here," Moregan said. "I didn't expect you to be working."

Ransom didn't stand; he remained rigid on his stool and looked at Moregan over his shoulder as if waiting for the interruption to end so he could return to his work. "I don't know where Dared is, but if you're looking for Roe, he's at the Crafthall."

"I was looking for you, actually. Are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be all right?"

Moregan frowned in confusion. "What do you mean? The drum relay—"

Ransom began shaking his head before his father finished speaking. "That was about Roe," he said flatly. "Roe's the one who was whipped. Didn't the message say so?"

Moregan blinked hard as he struggled to process the new information. Roe? He couldn't imagine his gentle son being whipped, the smiling one who drew beauty and spoke with his hands. The message had stated only that his son had been flogged, failing to specify which one. Roe's name must have been left out somewhere during the two day relay across the continent.

Ransom stared at him through cold black eyes. "You thought it was me, didn't you." He snorted before Moregan could answer. "I guess I can't blame you." He threw down his pen and stood in one motion. "I need to go practice."

"Wait." Moregan stopped Ransom with a hand on his shoulder. The lines of his son's face were drawn into a hard mask. He looked so much like his mother. It was as if she were watching from behind his eyes. Moregan's gut twisted. Who was this boy with the impenetrable gaze, on the cusp of becoming a man? He didn't know. He had never known.

"What happened to your hand?" Moregan asked. He was flailing, his glib Masterharper's tongue flapping out of control like a hooked fish as it always did in his sons' company.

"You don't remember the last time you saw me?" Ransom said. "It was quite an embarrassment for you." He shrugged off his father's hand and pushed past him into the hall.

Moregan folded his hand into a fist and let it drop to his side. He watched his son walk away, feeling more at a loss than he had ever been as a young boy handling a gitar. He had trained his entire life to be a harper. Fatherhood had been sprung on him in a matter of months. There was no guild, no Craft to teach him what he lacked. His sons were strangers and he, a failure.

The silence in Dared's room was oppressive. Moregan turned around and left.

* * *

A grim council was gathered in Dared's crowded quarters that night. Moregan straddled a backwards chair, resting his forearms on its wooden back. His dark hair was raked on end, his shirt sleeves rolled past his elbows. To his right, Roe sat with rigidly straight posture. Layla fiddled with her hair nervously beside him. Their loosely interlaced fingers rested on her knee. Miyra leaned against Barrak's arm in the doorway to the spare room where Kara was sleeping. Levine somehow managed to look composed from her seat by the work table, her long limbs folded like dragonwings at rest. The last to arrive, Ransom slouched against the wall in the back corner. His face was in shadow, but Dared could feel the antagonism radiating from the boy. He didn't have to think hard to guess the cause. Roe was on edge as well, his gaze flicking nervously between his father and brother. Dared watched the tense tableau. It was no Gather day Moregan was walking into.

"I told Ransom," Dared had said to him earlier as they walked through the hills behind the Hold. Moregan had expressed concerns about Dared's leg and the distance, but the Harper shrugged them off. He wanted to spend some time away from the Hold before morning. "I told him about Sabina," he said.

"Ah. That would explain it." Moregan ran a hand through his hair and exhaled.

"Why didn't you ever tell him?"

Moregan rolled a few speckled pebbles around on his palm. He had collected them in the long grass as they walked. "How do you tell something like that to a child? He was always too young, but once he was old enough, he was gone." He gave Dared a smile sick with self-condemnation. "Poor excuses, right?"

"He should have heard it from you."

Moregan tossed the pebbles away one by one. "It's better this way. You're a better man than me, Dared. You're like the father he deserves."

"But I'm not his father," Dared said sharply. "You are. He deserves your love first." His limp was growing more pronounced, so Moregan stopped to let him rest. Dared snarled in frustration and bent to massage his leg. "I'm tired of your self-pity, Moregan."

"That's a bit rich, coming from you."

"I had half my soul ripped out. I think I'm allotted a good share of wallowing. You, on the other hand, have had fifteen Turns to get over your guilt. You've been forgiven by everyone involved except yourself."

"I can't," Moregan said bleakly. "She's gone and I can't atone for what I've done."

Dared gripped his friend's shoulder and stared him in the eye. "Sabina may be dead, but her son—your son—is not. Be a father to him, for her sake."

"It's too late now. He's almost a man, and he hates me."

"As he'll continue to unless you do something about it." He bent down again to rub his knee.

"How's your leg?"

"You may have to carry me back to the Hold," Dared replied ruefully.

"Not a chance. I'll leave you out here on your bum to be trampled by wherries. Then this whole fiasco would be settled."

"Heartless bastard."

Moregan flashed his most winning smile. "That's why they made me Masterharper. Come, let's go back while you still can walk."

Dared's leg still ached as everyone gathered in his quarters hours later. He propped it up on a stool and kneaded his knee, ignoring Moregan's exasperated glare. He knew it had been unwise to exert himself so much before a duel, for that was what lay ahead. Moregan had spent the bulk of the day talking Dared and the lords through remarkable diplomatic contortions to no avail. Both Dared and Daxel refused to yield, the harper to rescinding his challenge and the young lord to acknowledging his crimes. Haligon, Aegellan, and now the Masterharper were all helpless to stop them.

Dared cleared his throat, drawing everyone's eyes to him. "You all know why it is you're here. Thank you for coming."

The door creaked open and Gabrien stuck his head in. "Am I late? I'm sorry. Ransom told me what was happenin' and I asked to come."

"Come in," Dared said, moving his stool to make room for the stocky guard. "Any friend of Ransom's is a friend of mine."

Gabrien sidestepped into the space between Dared and the Masterharper, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to take up less room. Everyone else waited with bated breath.

"What's going to happen, Dared?" Layla asked in a small voice.

Dared inhaled, avoided eye contact with Miyra, and looked at Roe instead. The boy's blue gaze was locked on his mouth. "Everything that could be said has been said, and my position is unchanged. The duel will continue as planned tomorrow morning."

"The terms?" Barrak asked.

"Until one man is unable to fight further, be it from being disarmed, wounded, or killed," Moregan replied in a dull monotone as if he'd repeated the words many times before.

Dared tried a smile. "Don't worry, I'll go easy on Daxel. I have no desire to prune Ruatha's family tree."

No one laughed. Miyra shot him a glare that would ignite firestone.

"D'ye have a blade?" Gabrien asked.

Dared rubbed his forehead to disguise the embarrassed flush creeping up his face. "Erm, no. I was hoping to borrow one."

"You haven't already made preparations?" Moregan asked bemusedly. The Masterharper had reached a point beyond anger or frustration. He scratched the back of his head, looking like an unruly young journeyman.

Gabrien touched the saber at his hip. "I'm willin' to lend mine to your service,"—he stepped around in front of the Harper and knelt formally—"but only if you allow me to wield it."

Dared blinked. "What?"

"I'm offerin' to fight lord Daxel in your stead."

"No. No!" Dared rose and pulled Gabrien up from his obeisance. "That will not be necessary. Thank you Gabrien, but this is my fight to face, not yours. Or anyone else's for that matter." He raised his voice over the shocked murmurs breaking out around the room.

"I beg to differ Harper, but my duty as a member o' the Hold guard is to uphold justice. The way I see it, I have as much a right to fight this duel as you."

"You didn't challenge him. I did."

"True, but on account o' your disability, another man may take on your cause an' fight in your place."

"He's right," Moregan said, jabbing his finger at Gabrien in growing excitement. "Dared, that's perfectly acceptable. There's nothing dishonorable in that."

"Why does everyone assume I would be useless in a duel? I fought Thread for fifteen Turns and survived the death of my dragon."

"With all due respect, Harper," Gabrien continued, "even if you were able-bodied, you aren't trained in hand-to-hand combat. Justice would be better served if I fought him." He turned to face Layla and Roe. "I have no love for lord Daxel an' I too want to see him brought to accoun' for what he did to this young lady an' young man."

Dared faced the guard and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You're a brave man, Gabrien, and honorable, but I can't allow you to risk your life for my sake."

"You're risking your life for Roe and Layla," Ransom said quietly from his corner. His face was still hidden in shadow.

"That was my choice."

"An' this is mine," Gabrien said, his usually smiling face solemn.

Dared exhaled as spears of pain lanced up his leg. This was not going well.

"We could ask Layla and Roe," Ransom spoke again. "They should have a say in this matter."

Layla's hand tightened around Roe's as all the eyes in the room shifted to them. Sensing her distress, Roe looked down at her. He switched the hand that was holding hers and put his arm around her waist.

Gabrien stood at ease, his hands folded in front of him. "I'd honor their decision."

Dared pressed his lips into a thin line. "I hardly think it's fair to put such a heavy obligation on them."

"Ransom is right," Moregan said in a low voice. "Listen to him, Dared."

Dared chewed the inside of his lip for a moment before conceding. "Very well. Layla, Roe, what do you think?"

Layla squeezed Roe's hand and looked up into his face. "Roe," she said. She spoke slowly and clearly to ease his understanding. "They want us to decide whether Dared or Gabrien should fight the duel tomorrow."

Roe continued to watch her lips for a few moments longer to make sure she was done speaking. His eyes flitted around and he shook his head. Ransom left his corner, stepping between Barrak and Levine, and stopped in front of his brother. The silence stretched as he signed, brown fingers and white bandages alternating in the glow light. Moregan watched them, his face old once again. Across the room, Miyra held her hand to her mouth, her eyes dark with worry. Dared was surprised she had stayed silent the entire time.

When Ransom finished signing, Roe nodded once and extricated his fingers to give his reply.

"What do you say, Layla?" Ransom asked her.

The girl met Dared's eyes for a long moment before switching her gaze to the guard. "Gabrien," she said.

Ransom turned to the men in question. "Roe's answer was the same."

Gabrien nodded. He looked at Dared and held his fist to his chest. "Harper, I'm honored to relieve you o' your duty."

Feeling too weary to stand, Dared echoed the gesture and recited the old words. "It's my honor to pass it on to you." He sank slowly into his chair.

Moregan leaned over and gripped his shoulder. "Live to fight another day, eh old friend?"

"That day had better come soon, because I'm not getting any younger."

"I think you've fought enough battles in your lifetime," Miyra said, appearing at Dared's elbow. She held out a small hand to the guard. "You're a good man, Gabrien. I'm glad to know you."

Gabrien cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed, and took her dainty fingers in his blocky ones.

"Thank you," she said simply.

He knuckled his forehead in an old-fashioned salute. "I think I'll be wanted back at the gate."

"Let me go with you," Moregan said, standing. "I'll acquaint you with the details for tomorrow." They left the room into the cold night.

Dared's quarters slowly emptied until only the Harper remained. He supposed he should be grateful that Gabrien had taken his place, but all he could feel was a bone-aching weariness. He unbuckled his leg and let it clatter to the floor.

* * *

Ransom was leaving the courtyard when his father caught up with him.

"Ransom?" Moregan had a way of making himself heard, even if his voice was the last the listener wanted to hear. A sad irony. He could engage and draw in so many people with his charisma, yet gave no attention to his sons.

Ransom turned automatically—he still couldn't resist his father's voice—to see Moregan jogging across the cobblestones toward him. He felt himself stiffening, his posture closing. He crossed his arms. The part of him that longed to open up, go to his father and be wrapped in an embrace had long been numbed by the splinters of resentment that pierced his skin over the turns. He had been pushed away, now it was time to return the favor.

"I'm glad I found you," Moregan said, an uncertain smile wavering around his lips.

"Roe went back to the dormitory and Dared's still in his quarters." He turned back towards the gate.

"Wait. I want to speak with you."

"Finally trying to be a father? You're about fifteen turns too late," Ransom aimed to wound, to shame his father, but the pain he saw in Moregan's face gave him little satisfaction. If anything, it only made him angrier. It was easier to hate a remorseless man.

"No," Moregan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I'd like to think not."

Ransom jerked away. "You lost your say in this matter a long time ago."

Moregan pushed a hand through his hair. "Look Ransom, I've failed you and Roe and I'm sorry. I failed Kesandra and—and your mother. I should have told you. Frankly, I hate myself for what I've done and what I've failed to do." He delivered his confession not in the emphatic, ringing tones of the Masterharper, but in the hoarse, halting voice of a broken man. "But I'm not sorry you were born," he continued. "I'm proud that you're my son." He lifted his eyes to Ransom's, the hope glimmering there even more awful than pain.

Ransom tightened his crossed arms. "Dared told you to say this, didn't he?"

"No. He told me to stop being a selfish ass. And a coward." Moregan looked him steadily in the face. "Forgive me, Ransom."

Ransom stared back, willing himself not to cry. He let anger grow instead, hot passion that shut out the tears and made him feel in control again. "Did you enjoy her at least?" he spat.

Moregan went white, his nostrils flaring and his eyes reddening in the torchlight.

Ransom regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but he was fully in his anger's grip, bitterness spewing from his lips like pus from a boil. "You're no better than Daxel." He turned and ran, leaving his father standing alone in the courtyard.


	16. Chapter 16

The morning of the duel dawned cold and mercilessly clear over Ruatha. Ransom had barely slept. His anger had burned away by the time his head hit his pillow, leaving the ashes of cold regret in its wake. Between that and dread for the duel, he had no peace to shut his eyes. He made the trek up to the Hold with heavy lids and a heavier heart as the Ruathan banners on the fire heights flapped in the mountain breeze beneath a lightening sky.

The yard outside the guard barracks was swept clean in preparation. Dared and Moregan were already there, speaking quietly with the captain. Ransom looked away as soon as he saw his father, wishing he could conjure up his old bitterness and resentment again. Anything was better than the unease curdling his stomach. He had wanted to punish his father, but the cutting words he chose left him feeling more ashamed than vindicated.

Gabrien waited a few paces away from the harpers. He wore a simple tunic and carried his saber bare, with no sheath.

"Ho, Ransom," he said without his usual smile. "Your brother sittin' this one out?"

"He's up in the heights with Layla." Ransom nodded towards the top of the wall, where their heads were outlined against the dawn sky, Layla's hair flying wild in the wind.

Gabrien made a small salute towards them. He stood with his feet apart, his broad shoulders loose but ready. His hand was steady as he gripped Ransom's fingers in greeting.

"Are you—how are you feeling?" Ransom fumbled. His harper's repertoire lacked a glib response for such a situation.

"Askin' me if I'm nervous?"

"Are you?"

Gabrien inhaled slowly and smiled with his eyes. "Whatever happens, it's a beautiful mornin'."

Aegellan and Haligon entered the yard, followed by a still-dressing Daxel. He pulled on a white shirt, tucking its hem behind the hilt of the elegant blade at his hip. Lady Nedaxa and several attendants hovered at the edge of the yard. Eight black-clad members of the guard stood at the yard corners.

At their approach, Moregan stepped forward with the guard captain and bowed.

"Masterharper. Dared," Haligon said grimly. "I had hoped it wouldn't come to this."

"As did I," Dared said. His eyes were shadowed and red-rimmed, but he had taken the time to shave.

Daxel brushed away Aegellan's hand from his shoulder and strode forward. "Let's get this over with."

Moregan's voice rang across the yard, the voice that commanded an entire Craft. "Lord Daxel of Ruatha, how do you answer the charge of raping the apprentice Layla and unjustly flogging my son Roe?"

Daxel made no effort to hide his disdain. "This again?"

"Yes, you arrogant little toe-wad," Haligon growled. "Answer the man!"

Daxel gave his father a measured look before giving his languid reply. "My answer is the same. The girl is lying, and the boy assaulted me without provocation. It was fully within my rights as a lord of Ruatha to have him punished."

Moregan maintained his composure despite Daxel's insolence. "Harper Dared, you have challenged lord Daxel to a duel for the sake of these two apprentices. Gabrien of the Hold guard, you have stepped forward to fight in the Harper's place." Dared and Gabrien nodded in turn, faces grim. Daxel yawned into the crease of his elbow. Moregan finished the formalities in a ringing voice and laid out the terms of the duel. "You will fight until one of you can no longer continue. May justice prevail." He and the captain stepped out of the bounds drawn for combat, signaling for the duel to begin.

Daxel drew his sword and threw his sheath aside, sleepy insolence wiped away. Ransom swallowed. The young lord was evidently a sportsman and well acquainted with a blade. Gabrien faced him, his saber coming up to the ready. They circled slightly as they approached each other. Ransom held his breath.

A sneer darkened Daxel's handsome face. "It's a shame to deprive the Hold of one of her guards," he said silkily. "Even so, I welcome a more challenging contest."

Gabrien wasn't going to waste his breath with banter. Seeing it, Daxel struck quickly, lunging forward with a straight thrust. Gabrien parried, and the clang of metal on metal sliced through the morning air. The contest had begun in earnest.

The men were evenly matched; Daxel was faster than quicksilver and agile as a feline, but Gabrien was stronger, with the endurance of a draybeast. The yard was silent save for the combatants and the clash of their swords.

Daxel feinted to the left. He landed a glancing slice across Gabrien's shoulder, opening a gash down to his elbow. A gasp rippled through the onlookers. Gabrien spun away with a low grunt. He kept his balance and parried Daxel's second attack, the tear in his sleeve flapping wetly. Ransom swore. Beside him, Dared was gray-faced, his mouth a worried slash against his pallid skin.

Gabrien managed to lock swords with Daxel. He used his strength to bear down on the slimmer man. Daxel's footing slipped and he dropped to one knee, turning his stumble into a roll out of Gabrien's reach. In the corner of the yard, Nedaxa clutched her attendant's arm. Daxel sprang upright and Gabrien pressed the attack while the young lord was still regaining his feet, forcing him to backpedal. Daxel blocked Gabrien's blows, but just barely. Perspiration beaded his forehead and his eyes began to widen in the first vestiges of panic.

The guards in the corner jumped out of the way as the duelists barreled toward them. Gabrien almost had the young lord trapped against the yard wall, but Daxel ducked under a wide swing and got his back to the center. He lunged in while Gabrien was still turning. Gabrien deflected Daxel's blade so it skimmed across his ribs instead of sliding through them. His ugly face was contorted with effort and pain.

Daxel renewed his attack, battering Gabrien's defenses with a flurry of slashes and jabs. The guard didn't give any ground, but he barely kept up with the faster man's lightning attacks. They circled around the yard, dust flying in clouds around their feet. Daxel feinted again, but Gabrien caught him this time, parrying with a twist of his wrist that sent the lord's sword clattering into the dirt. Gabrien brought the point of his blade to Daxel's throat.

Nedaxa's shriek cut across the yard, and Gabrien looked up at her in alarm. Daxel took advantage of his opponent's brief distraction to dive for his sword. He threw a handful of grit into the other man's eyes and rolled to his feet, landing a vicious kick to the side of Gabrien's knee. Gabrien stumbled with a strangled shout and fell to his knees. Daxel lunged; Gabrien barely got his sword up in time and the lord's blade plunged into his shoulder with a sickening crunch.

Ransom's insides lurched as if he had been punched in the gut. A tomblike silence fell around the yard so that Gabrien's groans and ragged breaths were clearly audible.

Daxel kicked Gabrien's sword from his hand. "Your disloyalty is sickening," he hissed, twisting the blade cruelly into the other man's flesh.

"That's enough!" the captain commanded, stepping into the ring. "This duel is over."

"That's ours to decide, per the terms of the duel." Daxel jerked his sword free and flicked the bloody tip beneath the guard's chin. "Do you yield?"

Gabrien's chest heaved and blood dripped from his fingers into the dirt. Low gasps came from his mouth. His lips moved.

"What was that?" Daxel's voice was slick with condescension. He lowered his blade and leaned his ear closer to the other man's face. "I didn't quite hear you."

Gabrien's reply was to grab the front of Daxel's shirt and launch himself forward. His forehead smacked into the young lord's with a meaty thud. Daxel's knees wobbled, nearly dumping him to the ground. Gabrien made a desperate dive for his sword, an enraged Daxel stumbling after him. Gabrien snatched up his blade. He spun around with a wild thrust, burying its point in Daxel's gut.

Nedaxa's piercing scream rang over the other onlookers' exclamations. She clawed at the guard restraining her, her face a mask of anguish.

Daxel's gray eyes were wide with shock and his sword fell from his nerveless fingers. His mouth worked soundlessly as scarlet bloomed across his white shirt. Gabrien withdrew his blade and a violent shudder wracked Daxel's body. He crumpled face-first into the dust.

The captain rushed to Daxel's prone body, Nedaxa close on his heels. "Bring a healer!" he shouted over the lady's wails.

Ransom and another guard were the first to Gabrien's side. "Gabrien, are you all right?" Ransom asked, ducking under his arm to support him as he swayed.

"Still standin'," Gabrien panted, his face blotchy from pain and exertion.

"Don't try to talk," the other guard grunted. "Let's get you patched up first. Help me, boy." He wrapped Gabrien's uninjured arm around his shoulders.

"Ransom," Gabrien groaned. "Will you get my blade?"

Ransom darted over to pick up the sword. A quarter of its length was stained with blood. In the center of the yard, Nedaxa had rolled her son over and was cradling his head on her lap. She ran shaking fingers over his pallid face again and again as she sobbed. Ransom tore his eyes from them to follow Gabrien to the sidelines, the sword heavy in his hand.


	17. Chapter 17

Two chapter update today, so 16 is up too.

Well, this is it! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I hope you have enjoyed the story; I certainly had a ball writing it.

Thank you again! Cheers.

* * *

Dared, Layla, Ransom, and Roe filed into the barracks infirmary when Gabrien's wounds were finally stitched and wrapped. The other two apprentices had come down from the fire heights after the duel, faces pale and hands entwined. Layla looked once at the center of the yard and then away while Roe stared at the young lord's body being carried out, followed by his weeping mother.

Gabrien sat on the edge of a low cot, white linen looped across his swarthy chest, wounded knee bandaged and straightened in a splint.

"Gabrien," Dared said with a grateful nod. "Well fought."

Gabrien showed his gap-tooth in a half smile. "It's done. Any word on Daxel?"

"None yet."

"Th-thank you, Gabrien," Layla stammered. "From both of us."

"It was an honor."

Roe offered his hand solemnly, Gabrien returning the gesture. Long artist's fingers closed around stocky, battle-scarred ones. Layla impusively wrapped Gabrien in a tight hug, careful to avoid the bandages around his ribs and shoulder. "I'm sorry you got hurt."

Gabrien cleared his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. "I was fortunate. Daxel's a skilled fighter, an' he was aimin' to kill."

"You saved my life," Dared said. "I'm in your debt. Anything I can do in your service, I will."

"Jus' keep playin' your music is all."

The infirmary door creaked open and Moregan stepped in. His eyes met Ransom's for the briefest moment and flicked away. Ransom felt his insides crumble.

"What news?" Dared asked him.

"He's alive, for now," Moregan said wearily. "The healers are still working. If they can save him, he'll be shipped back to Crom once he's recovered enough to survive the journey." Gabrien gave a somber nod in answer.

A chill ran up Ransom's spine. "Why someone would want to save the life of a man like that is beyond me," he muttered.

"Daxel's a man like any of us," Moregan said sharply. "What he did was unexcusable, but he deserves a chance to live and reform his ways."

Ransom's face grew hot as his hands went cold. Humiliation slithered across his skin, leaving behind the shriveled husk of his self-righteous anger. He hated his father for making him lose face, then hated himself for reacting like a petulant child.

"That's some high optimism you have, Masterharper," Gabrien said. "Some migh' call it naivete."

"The world would be a much bleaker place if I didn't believe it," Moregan replied, the skin around his mouth going taut.

Gabrien shrugged his uninjured shoulder. "I'd like to hope you're right."

Layla wrapped her arms around herself, her green eyes dark. "And if he doesn't change?"

Dared squeezed her shoulder. "Pray he does, for all our sakes. That is, if he lives." She didn't look at him, staring at the floor instead with her fingers twined in her hair. Dared gave her a small smile that was halfway between reassurance and sympathy. "Layla, why don't you and Roe go down to Miyra's? She hasn't learned the news yet, and I'm sure she'd want to hear how Gabrien is faring." She nodded, her forehead still furrowed.

"What will you do now, Gabrien?" Layla asked him.

The guard paused in the middle of reaching for the tunic draped on the back of a chair. "Go back to guard duties. Can't spen' much time on this knee o' mine, but I'm sure I'll have somethin' to do." He grinned brightly. "Don't worry about me. Takes more'n a hole in my arm an' a bum leg to get me down."

Layla, and Roe left the infirmary. Moregan made to follow, but Dared stopped him with a small cough and a meaningful nod towards Ransom. Not the Harper's best example of subtlety. Ransom wanted to disappear _between_. The rational part of him knew Dared meant well, but most of him wished the Harper would just let matters lie. Most of him didn't want to speak with his father. He tried to ignore the small portion that did.

Moregan settled the matter, pushing past Dared without a glance in Ransom's direction. Ransom kept his head down and avoided Dared's gaze until the Harper gave up and left as well. Only then did he feel the disappointment oozing through his gut.

Gabrien watched the entire exchange through knowing eyes. He threaded his injured arm gingerly through the arm of his tunic. "So that's your father," he said conversationally. "Seems you two aren' on the best o' terms?"

"It's a long story." Ransom shoved his hands into his pockets.

"You know he asked me if he could fight the duel instead, seein' as Roe's his son an' I had no stake in the initial conflict." Gabrien grinned crookedly. "I refused, o' course, tol' him the same reasons I gave to Dared. But it was brave o' him, even so."

"It would have been braver had he offered in the first place," Ransom muttered over his surprise. Moregan offered to fight for one of his sons? He felt even guiltier for his harsh words from the previous evening.

"Eh, your father's a harper, not a fightin' man. Prob'ly didn' cross his mind." He stood, balancing slowly on one leg, and lifted a crutch from its hook on the wall.

"Why did you do it, Gabrien? You were only involved because I asked you to come."

Gabrien tested the crutch beneath his arm. "Seemed like the right thing to do. Some fights belong to all o' us, not jus' those directly involved."

"What are you doing on that crutch?" a sharp-faced woman in healer garb snapped, striding toward Gabrien from the other room. "I didn't give you permission to leave. You just were stabbed, for Faranth's sake."

Gabrien gulped guiltily and returned the crutch to the wall. "Jus' feelin' things out."

"Don't make me dose you with fellis." The healer shook a warning finger at him until he lowered himself penitently back onto the cot. Ransom hid a smile.

"Looks like I'm stuck here for the time bein'," Gabrien said glumly. "I appreciate you keepin' me company, but you don' have to stay. I reckon I'm right borin' and you prob'ly have duties to get back to."

"Thank you Gabrien, for everything." Ransom held out his hand to the guard. "You're one of the best men I know."

Gabrien accepted the gesture with a solemn nod. "You're a good lad, Ransom. Give my regards to your father, in case I don' see him before he goes."

Ransom stepped out from the barracks infirmary. He needed to clear his lungs of the cloying odor of numbweed, his head of his father and the duel. The sun had cleared the fire heights and continued to climb the ladder of the sky, unfettered by clouds. Gabrien had been right; it was a beautiful day, but Ransom couldn't enjoy it. He thrust his hands into his pockets and trudged toward the Hold gate, away from the dusty dueling yard.

He started up the stairs to the fire heights, deep in thought. From the top of the wall, he spotted Dared and Moregan standing on the path, in the shadow of a huge bronze dragon. Ransom gripped the edge of the stone crenellations. Moregan was leaving already? A sudden urgency seized Ransom. He had already missed his opportunity in the infirmary. If he did nothing now, he felt like a door would close forever. Heart already thrumming in his chest, he raced down the heights to the drums.

On the path below, Moregan swung into the saddle on the bronze's neck ridge. Ransom clambered onto the platform and swept the cover off of one massive signal drum and fumbled for the sticks. The bronze dragon unfurled his majestic wings, sending a cloud of dust flying. Only one hand, Ransom told himself grimly. The dragon leapt into the air, shooting upward with every wingbeat. Ransom swore, nearly dropping the sticks. At the first drumstroke booming through the morning, the dragon's head whipped around, his ascent coming to a stop. Ransom held both sticks in a V in his good hand, turning his wrist to alternate which stick hit the drumhead. His wrist ached, but he only readjusted his double grip and continued.

The last thunderous beat faded across the valley, the drumhead slowly stilling beneath Ransom's fingers. The bronze carrying Moregan and the rider still hovered a few dragonslengths above the path. Ransom watched the small figures astride its back, straining his eyes against the bright sunlight. After a moment, Moregan raised an arm in acknowledgment. The bronze wheeled, waggling his wings in the familiar salute Ransom remembered from his apprentice days, then they winked out.

Ransom blinked back unexpected tears, letting the drumsticks fall loosely from his fingers. He had said what he needed to and his father had heard. He scrubbed his nose into his sleeve and picked up the drum cover to drag it back in place.

Dared was just limping through the Hold gate when Ransom made it down to the courtyard. The Harper gave him a tired smile.

"So he's gone now?" Ransom said.

Dared nodded. "I didn't expect him to go so soon, but I guess that's the nature of being the Masterharper in times like these. He wanted to offer you a place at the Harper Hall again."

Ransom shook his head as Dared paused. "No. I don't want to go back. Ruatha's my home now."

"Good. I took the liberty of turning him down for you. Harper Hall or not, I won't have my best assistant taken away so soon."

"I'm your only assistant," Ransom snorted as Dared draped an arm around him.

"Evidence of my impeccable taste. Quality over quantity, my boy." Dared let out a quiet chuckle through his nose. "I'm glad you didn't miss his leaving completely. You'll see him again soon enough, at the Spring Festival. By the by, what did your message mean?"

" 'You're not like Daxel,' " Ransom said quietly, looking up at the spot of sky where his father had jumped _between._ "It was a way of saying I'm sorry."

Dared squeezed his shoulder lightly, a thoughtful half-smile softening the lines in his face. "Good man. You'll be all right, Ransom. But," and he frowned the exaggerated disapproval of a finicky Craft Master, "your sticking on that message was so muddy, I could barely make heads or tails of it. I'll have you practicing day and night from now til the Spring Festival."

"I was drumming one-handed," Ransom exclaimed in pretend protest.

Dared sniffed, his eyes twinkling above his supercilious pout. "A Harper never lets his Craft slip, no matter how many hands or legs he has."

"You don't need a certain number of legs to play an instrument."

"Try telling me that after you've had a leg chopped off."

The Harper and his apprentice crossed the courtyard, their laughter rising into the clear morning air.

* * *

THE END


End file.
